if  A  MAR  A 


A  N  ;') 


OTHERPOEMS 


LAMARA 


AND 


OTHER  POEMS 


BY 


GEORGE    HOMER    MEYER 


SAN    FRANCISCO 

A.  ROMAN  &  Co.,  PUBLISHERS  &  BOOKSELLERS 
1878 


COPYRIGHT  1878 
A.   ROMAN    &  CO. 


Bancroft  Library 
•MI4B 


Dedicated  to 
MY  FATHER  AND  MOTHER. 


PUBLISHERS'  PREFACE. 


The  little  collection  of  poems  herewith  presented 
—  the  work  of  a  native  Californian,  the  son  of  a 
pioneer  of '49 — is  given  to  the  public  on  the  occa- 
sion of  the  Author's  twentieth  birth-day. 

The  reader  will  find  the  verses  possessed  of  a 
special  interest,  not  so  much  perhaps  for  any  extra- 
ordinary literary  merit  or  marks  of  peculiar  origin- 
ality, as  for  the  unmistakable  evidence  of  talent  and 
industry  that  has  enabled  a  boy  in  years,  inspired 
by  nothing  more  than  the  somewhat  dull  routine  of 
ranch  life  in  Sonoma  County,  to  do  so  creditable  a 
piece  of  work  as  the  longer  poem,  "  Lamara." 

Some  of  the  shorter  poems  have  been  published 
in  the  Sonoma  Democrat  and  other  local  papers, 
but  most  of  them  are  here  put  in  type  for 
the  first  time,  and  given  to  the  reading  public 
as  the  bud  of  a  possible  blossom  in  the  garden 
of  poetic  literature. 


CONTENTS. 


Lamara,  7 

Irene,  48 

The  Nun,  62 

Lutzen,     -  -    73 

A  Russian  River  Legend,    -  80 

Alabama,  -     91 

The  Fairy's  Secrets,  94 

The  Siren  of  Song,  •     95 

Gethsemane,  97 

Unknown,  -     98 

After  the  Battle,  99 
A  Legend  of  Santa  Rosa,    -                                     -        101 

Dying,  -  103 

The  Grape-Gatherers,  105 

The  Lost  Grave,  -  106 

The  Mother's  Cross,  108 

Caster's  Dead,  -  109 

Rosabel,  111 

Slumber,  -  113 
A  Lamentation,          ...                        -        114 


6  CONTENTS. 

Orgetorix,  -  115 

My  Dream,  117 

The  Brothers,       -  -  118 

Remorse,         -  120 

The  Ocean-Queen,  -  122 

Good  Night,  124 

Fishing,     -  -  125 

A  Fragment,  127 

Clan-Ronald,        -  -  128 

Waiting,  129 

Death-Life,                                                 .  -131 

Black  Point  Musings,  133 

The  Minstrel's  Curse,     -  -  134 

Playing  Chess,  140 


AMARA. 


CANTO     FIRST. 


A  gorgeous  western  sunset  sky, 
Too  fair  for  man's  profaning  eye  ; 
A  long,  low  range  of  verdant  hills, 
Adown  whose  sides  a  thousand  rills 
In  crystal  brightness  'neath  the  glow 
Of  sunset  ever  downward  flow  ; 
Or  melt  in  air  and  fade  away 
Ere  reaching  earth  in  snowy  spray. 
A  long,  bright  reach  of  ocean  strand, 
Of  pearly  shells  and  golden  sand, 


LAMARA. 

Extending  narrowly  between 

The  ocean  blue  and  upland  green, 

As  nature's  own  division  line 

To  part  the  worlds  of  shore  and  brine. 

The  calmest  of  all  crystal  seas, 

Unstirred  by  keel  or  flying  breeze, 

And  on  whose  bosom,  wide  and  vast, 

No  shade  of  cloud  or  mist  is  cast, 

One  graceful  bark  upon  its  tide 

Reposes  safe  —  and  none  beside. 

How  fair  the  sky's  enchanting  blue  ! 
How  calm  the  sea  of  deeper  hue!  — 
That  floweth  far  from  sand  and  shore 
Where  mortal  sight  may  not  explore, 
To  distant  fairy  isles  that  lie 
Beyond  the  power  of  human  eye. 
How  fair  the  hill-tops,  robed  in  green, 
Now  gilt  with  sunset's  golden  sheen ; 
And  how  the  fading  monarch  flings 
His  light  upon  the  folded  wings 
Of  yonder  vessel,  resting  there, 
As  graceful  as  a  bird  of  air. 
As  fair  and  innocent  she  seems 
As  visioned  barks  in  happy  dreams. 
Surely,  in  scene  so  calm  and  pure, 
A  dark  resolve  may  not  endure. 


LAMARA. 

And  now,  as  twilight  shadows  fall, 
And  darkness  spreads  her  sable  pall, 
A  faint  and  still  recurring  sound 
Dispels  the  deathly  silence  'round; 
And  manned  by  crews  of  southern  hue, 
Three  fairy  barks  shoot  o'er  the  blue ; 
And  as  with  measured  strokes  they  glide 
Above  the  phosphor-gleaming  tide, 
Their  voices,  bursting  into  song, 
Peal  gloriously  proud  and  strong. 
Yet,  sounding  o'er  the  dark'ning  main, 
Sometimes  the  rowers'  haughty  strain 
From  song  of  triumph  seems  to  change 
To  music  wildly  sweet  and  strange. 

"  Row,  brothers,  row  ! 
Bend  the  gleaming  oar ; 
Row,  brothers,  row ! 
Soon  we'll  reach  the  shore. 
Tightly  clench  each  iron  hand, 
Grasp  the  oar  like  hilt  of  brand, 
Soon  we'll  safely  reach  the  strand — 
Row,  brothers,  row ! 

"  Row,  brothers,  row  ! 
Stern  our  hearts  and  bold ; 

Row,  brothers,  row  ! 
Dear  the  Spaniard's  gold. 


10  LAMARA. 

Rovers  we  on  sea  and  shore, 
Dark  and  stern  in  strife  and  war, 
Prompt  for  Southron  gold  and  gore — 
Row,  brothers,  row ! 

"  Row,  brothers,  row  ! 
Brief  the  mortal's  hour ; 

Row,  brothers,  row  ! 
Seize  its  seldom  flower. 
When  we  die,  upon  our  biers, 
Fall  not  maid's  nor  matron's  tears — 
Who  will  mourn  the  buccaneers  ? 
Row,  brothers,  row  !  " 

The  strange,  wild  chant  hath  ceased,  and  now 

Grates  on  the  shore  each  curving  prow  ; 

And  soon  the  whole  wild-seeming  band 

Is  grouped  upon  the  wave-washed  sand  ; 

And  one  there  is  who  stands  aside, 

Majestic  in  his  scorn  and  pride ; 

And  with  dilated  nostrils,  there, 

And  flaming  eyes,  whose  burning  glare 

Illumes  a  grand  and  kingly  face, 

Of  more  than  earthly  pride  and  grace, 

And  rearing  proudly  such  a  form 

As  never  quails  in  strife  or  storm, 

With  belt  bedecked  with  Seville  brand  — 


LAMARA.  II 

The  gift  of  baneful  Morgan's  hand  — 
With  knightly  cross  and  golden  star, 
Which  on  his  breast  in  wars  afar, 
When  battle's  carnage  raged  around, 
By  royal  fingers  had  been  bound, 
With  look  as  .Eblis  might  have  worn, 
He  stands  —  embodied  pride  and  scorn. 
And  ne'er  a  sign  of  fear  or  grief 
Betrays  the  truth  —  a  fallen  chief ! 

A  murmur  breaks  the  stillness  now, 
And,  bowing  with  uncovered  brow 
Before  the  chief,  whose  mighty  name 
He  honors  still  from  very  shame, 
A  stalwart  man,  whose  locks  the  flow 
Of  years  hath  whitened  into  snow, 
Advances  from  the  murm'ring  crowd, 
And  slowly,  sternly  speaks  aloud  : 

"  Lamara,  late  we  claimed  in  thee 
A  leader  both  by  land  and  sea ; 
And  while  our  rugged  souls  you  swayed, 
Deny  not  but  that  we  obeyed  ; 
And  while  we  owned  thy  ruling  word, 
Thou  know'st  in  vain  'twas  never  heard, 
And  when  to  slaughter  and  to  death 
Thou  led'st  us  'mid  the  battle's  breath, 


12  LAMARA. 

Where  falchions  flashed  and  bullets  rained 
If  e'er  we  left  thee  unsustained  — 
If  e'er  our  courage  damped  or  fell, 
Then  let  thy  recollection  tell. 

"  And  for  thy  then  resistless  sword, 
Thy  worth  and  daring  we  adored  ; 
And  felt  it  no  disgrace  to  bow 
In  vassalage  to  such  as  thou  ; 
And,  loving,  trusting  thee  so  well, 
We  thought  to  storm  the  gates  of  hell 
Were  venture  not  too  wild  and  dread 
To  daunt  our  souls — if  thou  hadst  led  ! 

**  But  thou  art  changed  :•  the  fleets  of  Spain 
For  thee  might  safely  plough  the  main; 
And  long  it  is  since  last  we  heard 
From  thy  proud  lips  the  stirring  word 
Which  oft  in  conflicts  past  and  gone 
Was  wont  to  cheer  thy  comrades  on. 
And  O,  methinks  I  see  thee  now!— 
As  when  with  sulphur-darkened  brow, 
Godlike  and  kingliest  of  men, 
Thou  led'st  us  on  at  Darien !  — 
But  vain  it  is  to  thus  recall 
The  scenes  remembered  by  us  all. 
Enough  !  —  Thou  hast  already  heard, 


LAMARA.  13 

Yet  hear  again,  our  final  word  : 
If  thou  our  leader  still  wouldst  reign, 
Then  backward  to  the  Spanish  main 
Direct  our  course,  and  there  once  more 
Become  the  chief  thou  wert  of  yore ; 
And  once  again  it  shall  be  known  — • 
Lamara's  blades  are  all  his  own. 
Refuse  —  and  yet  I  need  not  tell : 
Our  firm  resolve  thou  knowest  well. 
So  answer,  chieftain,  claim  thine  own, 
Or  else  we  sail  —  and  sail  alone  ! " 

Then  burns  the  flame  of  scornful  ire 
Within  Lamara's  eyes  of  fire  ; 
His  kingly  form  erect  he  rears 
With  pride  that  seems  of  other  spheres ; 
And  with  defiance,  proud  and  high, 
His  scornful  lips  give  their  reply  : 
"  Jerome  —  and  you,  ye  sullen  crew  — 
How  much  of  gratitude  is  due 
Your  sordid  souls  from  him  who  made 
Your  fortunes  with  unaided  blade, 
And  spread  for  ye  your  fame  world  wide, 
Let  Him  who  rules  above  decide. 
And  shall  Lamara's  soaring  soul 
Yield  to  a  nameless  knave's  control  ? 
Cringe,  meek  and  fawning,  to  endure 


1 4  LAMARA. 

And  list  behest  of  every  boor, 
Who  by  low  skill  and  treach'rous  wile, 
With  scheming  mind  and  heart  of  guile, 
Hath  made  himself  the  chief  of  those 
Who  range  them  as  their  leader's  foes  ? 
No,  never  !     On  my  breast  I  bear  — • 
And  placed  by  royal  fingers  there  — 
My  kighthood's  cross  and  golden  star, 
Obtained  in  foreign  wars  afar ;  , 

And  at  my  girdle  hangs  the  brand 
Received  from  noble  Morgan's  hand, 
The  boldest  chief  who  ever  made 
Himself  a  name  by  falchion-blade. 
And,  tremblers,  by  these  symbols  know  — 
I  prize  the  high,  I  scorn  the  low ! 
So  go  your  way,  nor  prate  to  me 
Of  giving  pledge  to  such  as  ye  ! 
Lamara  ne'er  will  rule  your  band 
But  with  free  heart  and  unbound  hand. 
'Twill  ne'er  be  said  ye  clipped  his  wings  — 
The  friend  of  heroes  and  of  kings  ! " 

He  ceases  now,  and  proudly  turns 
And  waves  his  hand  as  tho'  he  spurns 
The  thought  of  fear  and  of  despair, 
And  casts  it  by  like  idle  air. 
His  arms  he  folds  upon  his  breast, 


LAMARA.  15 

And  stands  —  a  form  of  careless  rest. 
And  calm  and  cold,  with  tranquil  eye, 
With  ne'er  a  word  and  ne'er  a  sigh, 
He  sees  the  rovers  cross  the  sand 
And  guide  the  boats  away  from  land. 
And  o'er  the  darkly  shadowed  tide, 
Phantasmal  barks  of  night,  they  glide  ; 
Now  reach  the  vessel  there,  and  fade 
To  nothingness  within  her  shade. 

The  moments  pass,  and  as  on  high 
The  stars  begin  to  light  the  sky, 
A  breath  of  cool  and  fresh'ning  breeze 
Comes  wafted  from  the  northern  seas. 
And  now  Lamara's  gazing  eyes 
Behold  the  snowy  canvas  rise, 
And  answering  to  her  steersman's  hand, 
The  vessel's  prow  is  turned  from  land  ; 
And  now,  as  fills  her  swelling  sail, 
She  glideth  on  before  the  gale  ; 
And  like  a  living  creature,  free, 
Flies  bounding  onward,  o'er  the  sea  ! 

In  deathly  stillness  on  the  sands 
The  silent  rover  chieftain  stands, 
And  never  do  his  glances  roam 
From  that  far  speck  amid  the  foam ; 


1 6  LAMARA. 

But  e'er  he  bends,  as  on  she  flies, 
Upon  the  bark  his  straining  eyes. 
His  plumed  and  jeweled  bonnet  now 
He  teareth  from  his  burning  brow, 
And  from  his  forehead,  high  and  bare, 
Streams  back  the  raven,  wind-blown  hair. 
And  now  the  waves  about  his  feet 
Advance,  recede,  in  silent  beat ; 
And  back  a  space,  as  one  in  trance, 
He  moves  with  still  unwav'ring  glance. 
His  mind  conceives  "of  nothing  save 
That  less'ning  speck  upon  the  wave ; 
And  thus,  with  fixed  and  straining  gaze, 
He  stands  until  the  rising  haze 
Hath  hid  the  vision  that  enchains 
His  sight,  and  nothing  more  remains. 

And  now  within  the  Rover's  eyes 

The  tears  of  grief  and  anguish  rise ; 

His  swelling  eye-lids  brimming  o'er, 

Betray  the  woe  repressed  before. 

Arid,  kneeling  low  upon  the  sands, 

He  waves  his  bloodless,  trembling  hands  ; 

And  high  above  the  billows'  beat, 

In  tones  of  sadness,  wildly  sweet, 

Resounds  his  voice  :  "  O,  sweet  Ma  Belle  ! 

Farewell,  forever  more,  farewell ! 


LAMARA.  1 7 

For  ne'er  again  shall  my  fond  eye 
Thy  loved  and  lovely  form  descry  ! 
No  more  shall  wretch'd  Lamara  roam 
On  thy  brave  decks,  his  ocean-home  ! 
Ne'er  more  shall  lie  him  down  to  rest 
As  safe  within  thy  faithful  breast, 
From  all  of  human  ills  and  harms, 
As  pillowed  in  Madonna's  arms  ! 
No  more  beneath  thy  bold  ensign 
Proclaim  me  lord  of  ocean-brine ; 
Nor  e'er  command  thy  leaden  rain 
To  prove  my  vaunting  not  in  vain  ! 
And  tho'  my  soul  may  long  and  yearn, 
To  bless  mine  eyes  thou'lt  ne'er  return  ! 
And  O,  thou  lost  and  loved  Ma  Belle, 
Farewell,  forever  more,  farewell !  " 

The  Rover's  voice  is  faint  and  low ; 
Now  falls  to  sobs  of  bitter  woe  ; 
While  burning  tears  in  torrents  pour 
From  eyes  that  never  wept  before. 
And  e'en  the  night-winds  seemed  to  sigh 
While  on  with  restless  wings  they  fly, 
As  moved  by  witnessing  the  grief 
That  overwhelms  the  fallen  chief. 
And  from  her  place  in  heaven's  crown, 
Each  tender  star  beams  softly  down, 


1 8  LAMARA. 

As  tho'  before  such  woeful  sight 
She  fain  would  veil  her  silver  light, 
Nor  gaze  on  one  so  young  and  fair, 
Oppressed  with  anguish  and  despair. 

But  short  the  time  that  grief  controls 
This  proudest  of  all  human  souls  ; 
For  soon  he  rises  from  the  sand 
And  strikes  away  with  hasty  hand 
The  drops  that  dim  his  ebon  eyes, 
And  quells  his  bosom's  rising  sighs. 
And  now,  once  more,  with  saddened  air, 
And  yet  with  voice  whose  tones  despair 
No  more  controls,  tho'  solemn,  yet 
Unstirred  by  longings  of  regret, 
He  speaks,  and,  ever  rolling  near, 
These  words  the  rising  billows  hear  : 

"  And  so  my  one  time  faithful  band, 
We  part  on  this,  the  strangers  strand. 
And  ye  my  voice  will  rule  no  more 
In  revel  wild  or  raging  war. 
Our  lives  are  s.undered,  ne'er  again 
Shall  we  together  sweep  the  main. 
Ye  sail  from  hence  to  tropic  zone, 
And  I  abide  me  here  alone. 
Alone  —  save  that  this  western  shore 


LAMARA.  19 

By  proud  Castile  be  lorded  o'er ; 
And  then  remaineth  there  but  one, 
A  Roman's  action,  to  be  done  : 
With  dagger's  edge  my  heart  to  rend, 
And  thuS  win  sure  and  speedy  end. 
For  dark  and  stern  and  wild  the  hour 
When  I  shall  lie  in  Spanish  power ; 
And  dread  the  death  of  cord  and  shame 
That  waits  the  bearer  of  my  name. 

"  They  said,  my  crew,  that  I  was  changed, 
From  our  wild,  reckless  life  estranged ; 
I  would  not  lead  them  o'er  the  main 
To  spoil  the  laden  fleets  of  Spain ; 
And  that  on  land  I  led  no  more 
To  plunder  Southron  planter's  store. 
And  he,  that  villain,  hoary-haired, 
Jerome,  the  crimson-handed,  dared 
To  dictate  terms  of  grace  to  me, 
To  me  the  one-time  Lord  of  Sea  !  — 
That  envied  name  in  former  days 
Bestowed  by  daring  Morgan's  praise  — 
And  had  contempt  not  stayed  my  hand 
He  then  had  died  beneath  my  brand  ! 
And  yet  my  spirit  trembled  when 
He  spoke  of  crimson  Darien ; 
For  there  —  O,  hoary-headed  slave  ! 
You  little  knew  the  thrust  you  gave 


20  LAMARA. 

"  That  fair-haired  boy,  I  see  him  now, 
His  dark  blue  eye,  his  broad  white  brow, 
As  clear  as  when  in  daring  wrath, 
With  sword  in  hand,  he  barred  my  path  — 
The  time  I  stormed  the  convent  wall, 
And  dared  defile  the  sacred  hall  — 
And  cried,  as  waved  his  blade  on  high, 

1  Thou  wretch,  and  base  assassin,  die  ! ' 
Alas,  brave  youth  !  that  taunting  word 
Too  well  thy  ruthless  foeman  heard  ; 
And  brief  the  conflict  thou  couldst  wage 
Against  his  wild  and  maddened  rage ; 
For  weak  thy  brave  and  boyish  hand, 
Opposing  dark  Lamara's  brand  ; 
And  soon  before  me  didst  thou  lie ; 
And  bathed  in  blood  I  saw  thee  die. 

"  And  then  came  one  with  flying  hair, 
And  kneeling  low  beside  thee  there, 
Embraced  thy  torn  and  bleeding  form, 
And  stanched  the  life-blood  bright  and  warm. 
But  when  she  saw  that  thou  wert  dead, 
No  sab  she  gave,  no  tear  she  shed  ; 
But  only  breathed,  '  My  son,  my  son  ! ' 
And  lower  still,  '  His  will  be  done  ! ' 
And  then  her  eyes,  wherein  there  burned 
A  wild,  wild  fire,  on  me  she  turned, 


LAMARA.  2 1 

And  murmured  low,  in  wond'ring  tone, 
'  This  man  a  mother  ne'er  hath  known  ! ' 
Those  words  —  that  look  —  I  could  not  bear ; 
I  hurried  on  and  left  her  there. 

"  Yet  once  again,  when  strife  was  done, 
The  conquest  ours,  the  treasures  won, 
A  will  I  strove  against  in  vain 
Bore  back  the  slayer  to  the  slain. 
But  'twas  with  all  reluctant  tread 
I  neared  the  still  and  silent  dead. 

"  The  dead  !  — for  both  lay  lifeless  there, 
Like  forms  of  sculptured  marble  rare. 
The  mother's  blood  some  ruthless  brand 
Had  spilled  upon  the  thirsting  sand. 
Yet  surely  that  relentless  blade 
.Had  done  but  as  she  wished  and  prayed ; 
For  by  that  smile  mine  eyes  could  trace 
Upon  her  calm  and  ashen  face, 
It  seemed  all  things  she  wished  were  won 
By  dying  thus  beside  her  son. 
'They  lay  upon  the  crimson  sand, 
Together  lay,  with  hand  in  hand ; 
With  pallid  lips  unstirred  by  breath, 
In  all  the  loveliness  of  death. 


22  LAMARA. 

"  And  standing  there  a  Presence  came, 
A  low  voice  spoke  and  breathed  my  name 
And  then  before  my  gazing  eyes 
A  wondrous  vision  seemed  to  rise. 
A  form  of  all-enchanting  grace, 
A  most  divine  and  lovely  face, 
The  brow  with  raven  hair  en  wound, 
And  with  a  golden  circlet  crowned ; 
And  eyes  so  soft  and  angel-pure, 
My  guilty  own  could  not  endure 
That  glance  that  would  their  depths  explore. 
But  shrank  as  ne'er  they  shrank  before. 
And  yet  methought  this  vision  seemed 
A  something  whereon  I  had  dreamed  ; 
For,  tho'  my  soul  was  bowed  with  awe, 
I  could  but  think  that  she  I  saw  — 
Such  angel-face,  such  tender  mien  — 
Mine  eyes  before  had  sometime  seen. 
Then  seemed  the  years  of  life  to  roll 
Backward  from  my  bewildered  soul ; 
And  as  mine  eyes  now  sank  before 
The  glance  that  pierced  my  bosom's  core, 
I  saw  the  fruits  of  conquest  won  — 
The  lifeless  mother  and  her  son  ; 
And  at  the  thought  conviction  came  : 
I  knew  —  and  spoke  my  mother's  name  ! 


LAMARA.  23 

"  Once  more  I  strove  mine  eyes  to  raise 

To  meet  her  calm,  accusing  gaze  ; 

And  once  again  my  spirit  failed. 

That  till  that  hour  had  never  quailed. 

And  now  my  shrinking  sight  again 

Sank  down  upon  the  silent  slain ; 

And  thence  upon  the  crimson  hand 

That  clasped  the  hilt  of  my  red  brand. 

And  while  I  gazed,  a  thrilling  breath, 

That  pierced  my  soul  like  doom  of  death, 

Within  my  hearing  seemed  to  say, 
'  This  blood  thine  own  shall  wash  away  ! ' 

And  then,  the  wondrous  spell  withdrawn, 

1  raised  mine  eyes  —  and  she  was  gone  ! 

"  And  now,  tho'  months  have  rolled  between, 
Her  form  these  eyes  no  more  have  seen. 
And  tho'  my  soul  hath  longed  to  hear 
The  words  that  bowed  it  once  with  fear, 
Yet  vain  hath  been  the  yearning  all, 
Those  thrilling  accents  to  recall. 
And  yet  —  my  spirit  knows  —  once  more 
That  form  shall  rise  my  sight  before. 
In  that  dread  hour,  that  comes  the  same 
To  lives  unknown,  and  lives  of  fame  : 
What  time  my  heart's  red-streaming  flood 
Shall  free  my  soul  from  stain  of  blood  ! " 


24  LAMARA. 

The  low  voice  fails,  and  on  the  sands 
Erect  and  still  Lamara  stands ; 
And  in  the  depths  of  his  dark  eyes 
A  strange,  far-seeing  lustre  lies  ; 
As  tho'  his  vision  dwelleth  on 
The  forms  and  faces  that  are  gone. 
And  now,  as  clouds  the  aerial  blue, 
And  darker  grows  old  ocean's  hue, 
While  rising  waves  in  wrath  divide 
The  surface  of  his  moaning  tide, 
And  wild  night  winds  make  wailing  moan. 
The  silent  Rover  stands  alone. 


CANTO    SECOND. 

O,  California  !  home  of  mine, 
What  charms  of  nature's  own  are  thine  ! 
Within  thy  rare  and  wondrous  realm 
What  varied  scenes  the  heart  o'erwhelm  ! 
What  dreams  of  beauty  man  may  find 
To  chain  his  soul,  enthrall  his  mind  ! 
And  e'en  the  eye  beholdeth  change, 


LAMARA.  25 

Where  all  is  beauty,  rich  and  strange. 
Here  fair  and  lovely  streams  are  seen 
'Mid  beds  of  ever  living  green  ; 
And  there,  in  loftiness  sublime, 
Enduring  monuments  of  time 
Since  earth  had  her  beginning,  stand 
Thy  peaks  that  shadow  o'er  the  land, 
Like  statues  calm  in  grand  repose, 
And  crowned  with  everlasting  snows. 

But  O,  another  harp  than  mine 
Should  praise  the  beauties  that  are  thine  ! 
Enchantments  that  to  thee  belong, 
And  weave  and  wreathe  them  into  song ! 
Should  sing  of  silver  flowing  rills, 
Of  Eden-vales  and  verdant  hills 
Within  whose  bosoms  lie  untold 
And  countless  hoards  of  virgin  gold  ; 
Of  hillsides  green  with  growing  vines, 
And  high-lands  dark  with  giant  pines ; 
Of  crystal  lake  and  inland  sea, 
And  mighty  rivers  flowing  free  ; 
And  of  thy  weird  and  rugged  shore 
Where  riseth  the  Pacific's  roar. 
For  these,  where  brightest  laurels  shine, 
O,  western  queen  !  a  place  be  thine  ! 
And  he  who  writes,  tho'  ill  may  tell 


26  LAMARA. 

His  pen  of  scenes  he  loveth  well, 
Still  thrills  with  pride,  he  lives  as  one 
Who  proudly  calls  himself  thy  son  ! 

Yet  tho'  thy  children  well  may  love 
Thy  shores,  thy  waves,  thy  skies  above, 
It  surely  is  not  theirs  alone 
To  know  the  beauties  all  thine  own. 
What  one,  tho'  alien,  e'er  denies 
The  homage  of  admiring  eyes, 
When  bursts  upon  his  vision's  range 
Some  scene  of  beauty,  wild  and  strange  ? 
Not  such  the  one  I  muse  upon, 
And,  tho'  a  child  of  years  agone, 
Still  dream  that  I  can  see  him  now  — 
His  stately  form,  his  noble  brow  — 
As  there  like  one  entranced  he  stands, 
Erect  with  clasped  and  folded  hands, 
Upon  the  ramparts  stern  and  grey, 
Where  Spanish  flag  and  pennons  play 
Above  the  walls  of  Monterey  ; 
And  gazes  with  enraptured  eye 
Toward  the  gorgeous  eastern  sky, 
Where,  rising,  Phoebus'  radiant  car 
Begins  its  course  thro'  realms  afar, 
And  dyes  with  crimson-gleaming  glow 
The  seas  of  floating  mist  below. 


LAMARA.  27 

And  all  the  scene  so  lovely  seems, 
The  old  man  gazes  on  and  dreams 
He  sees  those  gemmed  and  jewelled  halls, 
Those  gates  of  pearl,  and  gilded  walls, 
That  form  that  wondrous  city  fair 
That  waits  the  children  of  God's  care. 
And  low  the  gazer  murmurs  now, 
Upturning  his  uncovered  brow, 
While  beam  his  eyes  with  softer  light, 
1  O,  God  !  I  thank  Thee  for  this  sight ! " 

A  stern-faced  man  with  lofty  air 

Of  conscious  power  he  standeth  there  ; 

Yet  vain  is  all  his  look  of  pride, 

The  signs  of  woe  and  care  to  hide. 

Some  hour  of  grief  hath  left  its  trace 

Upon  that  worn,  yet  noble  face ; 

But  tho'  within  his  riven  heart 

The  barbed  and  deadly-venomed  dart 

In  aching  wound  may  long  remain, 

Souls  such  as  this  no  moaning  deign. 

And  by  his  look  he  may  be  known 

As  one  who  grieves  —  but  grieves  alone. 

His  raven  hair  is  flaked  with  snow, 
His  eyes  with  midnight  darkness  glow ; 
And  'neath  his  waving  sable  plume 


28  LAMARA. 

Are  e'en  endowed  with  deeper  gloom. 
Erect  his  form,  tho'  aged  and  worn, 
As  if  in  time's  despite  and  scorn. 
His  face  and  brow  of  lordly  cast, 
Tho'  youthful  freshness  long  hath  past ; 
And  well  that  high  and  haughty  face 
Proclaims  him  as  of  noble  race  ; 
For  in  each  full  and  pulsing  vein 
There  throbs  the  proudest  blood  of  Spain ; 
And  on  his  hand  a  priceless  ring  — 
The  guerdon  of  a  loving  king  — 
With  starry  shield  and  chevron-bar 
Betrays  the  line  of  Aldamar. 

A  step  upon  the  path  of  stone, 
A  voice  of  sweet  and  tender  tone, 
And  lustrous  eyes  that  meet  his  own 
In  loving  and  confiding  glance, 
Dispel  the  chieftain's  gazing  trance  : 
And  surely  ne'er  did  dreaming  mind 
More  rapturous  awaking  find  ! 

Full  often  hath  the  poison  tongue 

Of  malice  and  of  envy  rung 

In  kindred  ears  the  lying  shame, 

To  taint  his  proud  and  spotless  name, 

That  Aldamar's  unyielding  breast 

No  pulse  of  pity  e'er  possessed  ; 


LAMARA.  29 

No  loving  tenderness  was  there  — 
'Twos  only  scorn  and  hatred's  lair ! 
And  in  that  bosom  one  would  find 
No  sympathy  for  human  kind  ! 

O,  would  those  craven  clods  of  earth 

Who  gave  the  shameless  slander  birth, 

To  stain  this  proven  spirit's  worth, 

Could  mark  his  changing  visage  now, 

And  how  the  shadows  leave  his  brow  ; 

And  deep  within  his  midnight  eyes 

The  dews  of  fond  affection  rise  ; 

And  on  the  head  of  that  young  maid 

How  lovingly  his  hand  is  laid  ! 

How  tenderly  the  fingers  press 

In  benediction  of  caress  ? 

O,  scorn  unto  the  wretches  !  —  they 

Who  in  their  fallen  malice  say 

The  heart  of  Aldamar  is  steel 

And  earth's  affections  cannot  feel  ! 

Their  souls  should  sink  in  guilt  and  shame, 

And  burn  in  infamy's  dark  flame  ! 

To  note  the  love  intense  and  wild 

He  bears  his  brother's  orphan  child. 

He  greets  the  maid  in  loving  tone, 
Entwines  her  arm  within  his  own, 


3°  LAMARA. 

And  then  along  the  wall  of  stone, 
As  on  they  move  in  pensive  stroll, 
With  gentlest  and  yet  firm  control 
Directs  the  maiden's  steps,  the  while 
He  lists  with  kind  and  gentle  smile 
The  hesitating  words  and  low 
She  speaks  in  accents  strange,  as  tho' 
She  feared  and  felt  within  her  mind 
Her  pleading  would  no  favor  find. 

Upon  the  chiefs  majestic  brow, 

Where  beamed  such  kindliness  but  now, 

The  stern  and  sombre  shadows  rise, 

And  darkly  glow  his  raven  eyes. 

Yet  from  those  vice-like  lips  is  heard 

Not  one  unkind  or  hasty  word  ; 

But  careful  hearing  still  he  lends, 

And  only  when  Lenora  ends 

With  dewy  eyes  her  pleading  prayer, 

He  speaks  with  calm  and  saddened  air. 

"  Lenora,  thrice  hath  pity  wrung 
This  supplication  from  thy  tongue ; 
And  twice  mine  answer  hath  been  —  nay, 
And  yet  again  the  word  I  say. 
So  stay  thee,  maid,  entreat  no  more  : 
Thy  task,  compassion-wrought,  is  o'er ; 


LAMARA.  31 

And  vainly  o'er,  for  my  decree 
Is  fixed  as  yon  eternal  sea, 
And  dark  Lamara  I  have  sworn 
Lives  not  beyond  to-morrow  morn  : 
My  idle  word  was  never  known, 
My  monarch's  wishes  are  mine  own ; 
His  bidding  is  my  guide  alone. 

"  Yet  something  doth  thy  zeal  deserve, 
Tho'  from  my  faith  I  may  not  swerve ; 
And  I  will  tell  thee  what  will  burn 
Deep  in  thy  heart,  and  thou  canst  learn 
How  wasted  is  thy  pleading  breath 
On  him  his  crimes  have  doomed  to  death ;  . 
An  awful  tale  which  thou  shalt  know 
For  thine  own  sake  —  yea,  even  tho' 
The  knowledge  rend  thee  like  the  knife  : 
The  dreadful  sorrow  of  my  life." 
He  seats  the  pale  and  trembling  maid 
Upon  the  massive  balustrade ; 
And  then,  with  fingers  closely  pressed 
Upon  his  broad  and  heaving  breast, 
He  leans  himself  upon  the  stone, 
His  awful  eyes  far  seaward  thrown, 
And  speaks  in  low  and  hollow  tone 
The  maid  can  scarce  believe  his  own. 


32  LAMARA. 

"  A  fairer  bark  ne'er  glided  o'er 
The  trackless  waves  that  wash  the  shore 
Of  either  world  than  she  who  bore, 
Now  thirty  years  agone  and  more, 
My  bride,  myself,  and  vassal  band 
From  fair  Hispania's  tropic  strand. 
And  never  kinder  breezes  blew 
Than  those  upon  whose  wings  we  flew 
Across  the  main,  'neath  brighter  skies 
Than  vault  the  Moslem's  Paradise. 
Our  hearts  were  young,  our  visions  bright, 
The  future  seemed  a  path  of  light  ! 
I  held  my  warrant  in  my  hand 
For  ruling  in  this  western  land, 
And  dreamed,  ah,  fondly  dreamed  of  fame, 
The  coming  years  should  give  my  name. 
And  still  it  seemed  did  heaven  pour 
Her  blessings  till  our  cup  ran  o'er ; 
For  O,  what  joy  beyond  control 
Thrilled  deep  within  my  raptured  soul, 
When  first  I  saw,  one  beaming  morn, 
My  boy,  Bernardo,  ocean-born  ! 

"  Methinks  that  fairer  form  was  ne'er 
Beheld  among  the  fays  of  air ; 
And  God  upon  that  infant  face 
Had  laid  the  stamp  of  angel  grace  ; 


LAMARA.  33 

And  e'en  in  infancy  the  gloom 

Of  silken  hair,  like  midnight  plume, 

In  waving  curls  fell  shining  down 

Like  streamers  from  a  monarch's  crown. 

0,  could  we  dream  that  lovely  boy 
Whose  coming  crowned  our  perfect  joy  — 
Such  light  of  heaven  in  his  eye  !  — 

So  soon,  so  awfully,  should  die  ! 

"  My  God  !  methinks  e'en  now  I  hear 
The  cry  that  thrilled  my  dreaming  ear 
That  awful  night  when  fatal  sleep 
Had  wrapped  my  soul  in  slumber  deep  ! 
When  aided  by  the  friendly  dark, 
The  pirates  round  our  fated  bark 
Had  flung  their  deadly  snare,  and  now 
Came  storming  over  stern  and  prow  ! 
But  O,  wish  not  that  I  should  tell 
Of  all  that  chanced  that  night  of  hell ! 
How  sailors  true  and  vassals  tried 
Disdained  to  yield,  and  fighting  died  ; 
Till,  fallen  all  I  called  mine  own, 

1,  faint  and  bleeding,  stood  alone, 
With  red  and  broken  sword,  beside 
My  weeping  boy  and  pallid  bride. 
As  fainting  to  my  arm  she  clung, 

I  knew  that  all  was  lost,  and  flung 


34  LAMARA. 

The  blade  so  oft  had  served  me  well 
Among  those  demon  sons  of  hell ! 
Then  seizing  both,  with  frenzied  leap, 
I  sprang  into  the  raging  deep, 
And  vowed  that  since  we  might  not  fly, 
Please  God,  we  should  together  die. 
And  not  e'en  this  !  —  for  from  the  band 
One  sprang  with  greedy,  clutching  hand, 
And,  even  as  I  leaped,  the  boy 
•      He  seized  with  shout  of  fiendish  joy  ! 
And  when  above  the  foamy  snows 
That  swept  the  seething  waves  we  rose, 
There  full  before  our  maddened  sight, 
Within  the  red  and  lurid  light 
Qf  waving  torch  and  burning  brand, 
He  held  the  boy  with  crimson  hand  ! 

"  My  darling  screamed  in  anguish  wild, 
'  O,  God  in  heaven  !  my  child  !  my  child  ! ' 
He  heard  her  voice  above  the  storm, 
And  that  hell-hound  in  human  form, 
With  blade  already  crimson-dyed; 
A  fearful  cross  gashed  deep  and  wide 
Upon  that  stainless  breast,  and  cried, 
With  face  that  seemed  but  of  a  ghoul, 
*  Fear  not !  the  cross  shall  save  his  soul ! ' 
Then  laughed  in  fiendish  glee  aloud, 


LAMARA.  35 

And  down  amid  the  yelling  crowd 
He  flung  the  mangled  babe  —  and  then 
The  ship,  the  throng  of  demon  men, 
The  blazing  brands,  the  raging  wave, 
Were  buried  in  my  reason's  grave. 
The  horrors  of  the  night  were  o'er, 
My  sense  had  fled,  I  knew  no  more. 
And  when,  a  year  from  that  wild  night, 
Returning  reason's  dawning  light 
Thrilled  in  my  soul,  and  I  once  more 
Beheld  the  scenes  I  loved  of  yore, 
And  knew  myself  in  fair  Castile, 
And  those  who  watched  in  anxious  zeal 
My  mind's  return  as  kinsmen  tried 
I  knew  in  days  of  youthful  pride, 
They  told  me  that  a  bark  of  Spain 
Had  plucked  me,  raving,  from  the  main, 
Just  when  the  dawning  morning's  light 
Was  closing  o'er  that  awful  night ; 
And  close  upon  my  frozen  breast 
A  cold  and  lifeless  form  was  pressed. 
Kind  hands  unloosed  my  clinging  hold, 
And  wrapped  her  in  the  hammock's  fold ; 
Then  sang  the  sailor's  dirge,  and  gave 
The  unknown  dead  an  ocean  grave. 


36  LAMARA. 

"  So  endeth  all  I  have  to  tell. 
What  later  chanced  thou  knowest  well : 
How,  mindful  of  my  king's  behest, 
I  made  my  home  in  this  wild  west ; 
And  how  my  brother's  dying  prayer 
Besought  me  give  a  father's  care 
To  thee,  his  child ;  and  thou  art  here, 
The  one  on  earth  to  my  heart  dear ; 
And  thou  hast  ever  ruled  and  still 
Control  that  heart,  but  not  my  will." 

The  maiden  bends  her  lips  of  snow 
To  press  his  hand,  and  murmurs  low 
In  voice  that  seemeth  half  a  moan  — 
So  broken  is  its  mournful  tone  — 
"  Forgive  me,  for  I  did  not  know, 
Or  I  had  never  stirred  thy  woe  ! 
Once  more  forgive,  and  I  will  go." 
And  when  his  words  have  pardoned  all, 
The  maid  forsakes  the  fortress-wall. 


LAMARA.  37 


CANTO    THIRD. 

A  chamber  hewn  from  living  stone, 

Within  whose  walls  hath  never  shone 

A  ray  of  light  of  nature's  own. 

A  barred  and  massive  iron  door, 

A  cold  and  matless  granite  floor ; 

With  scanty  pallet  thereon  lain, 

Where,  fettered  firm  with  clasp  and  chain, 

With  slumber's  shadows  o'er  his  eyes, 

In  restless  sleep  Lamara  lies. 

And  from  its  alcove,  mildewed,  damp, 

Shines  dimly  forth  the  dungeon  lamp, 

With  strange  and  vapor-clouded  light  — 

A  ghost  of  subterranean  night. 

Perhaps  the  wild  one  in  his  dreams 
Again  beholds  the  gorgeous  streams 
Of  purple-hued  and  orange  beams 
That  fall  in  lustrous  waves  where  gleams 
The  sunset  in  those  distant  isles 
Of  southern  beauty's  richest  smiles. 
Forgotten  is  the  hateful  hour 
He  slept,  and  woke  —  in  Spanish  power  ! 


38  LAMARA. 

And  in  his  dream  his  yearning  soul 
Hath  burst  its  clay-built  walls  control, 
And  soars  away  on  airy  plume 
To  scenes  of  happiness  and  bloom. 

The  iron  hinges  grind  and  groan, 

And  chafing  'gainst  the  massive  stone 

The  portal  yawns  with  grumbling  moan. 

A  foot-fall  on  the  flagstone  bare 

Hath  fallen  light  as  cloud  of  air ; 

A  slender  form  with  streaming  hair 

Hath  knelt  beside  the  sleeper  there  ; 

Her  trembling  hands  have  touched  his  chain, 

And  lo  !  his  limbs  are  free  again. 

Yet  still  he  sleeps,  and  bending  low 

Above  his  breast  her  brow  of  snow, 

The  silent  maiden  lists  as  tho' 

She  fain  would  catch  the  thoughts  that  flow 

Within  the  dreamer's  soul,  and  know 

What  varied  visions  come  and  go 

In  silent  measure  to  and  fro. 

She  gazes  on  his  dim-lit  face, 
So  noble  in  its  kingly  grace, 
And  deeply,  tremulously  sighs, 
While  mists  of  pity  dim  her  eyes, 
To  mark  the  lines  of  pain  and  care 


LAMARA.  39 

So  late  yet  deeply  graven  there. 

"  O,  God  !  it  cannot  be  ! "  she  moans 
In  low  and  spirit-stricken  tones, 

"  Such  angel-seeming  type  of  Thee 
In  soul  so  demon-like  should  be. 
But  were  he  all  his  foemen  tell, 
Yea,  one  with  Satan's  hosts  who  fell, 
Then  still  —  O,  help  me,  God  above  ! 
This  demon  do  I,  must  I  love  ! 
I  love  and  cannot  let  him  die, 
He  must,  he  shall,  be  freed,  and  I 
Shall  in  the  doing  change  the  light 
Within  my  soul  to  blackest  night. 
I  shrink  not,  yet  I  would  'twere  o'er  — 
Ah,  me  !  to  never  see  him  more  ! " 

The  Rover  in  his  slumber  sighs, 
Then  opes  and  turns  his  gloomy  eyes 
Upon  Lenora's  shrouded  face 
With  wistful  gaze,  as  fain  to  trace 
Therein  some  joyous  dream  of  sleep 
His  wakened  yearning  fain  would  keep  ; 
And  murmurs,  "  Do  I  see  aright  ? 
Art  thou  a  phantom  child  of  night 
Whose  duty  'tis  to  linger  by 
The  couch  of  lost  ones  soon  to  die, 
And  deeper  shade  their  spirit's  gloom 


4°  LAMARA. 

With  shadow  of  impending  doom  ? 
If  such  thine  errand,  get  thee  gone  ! 
For  death  I  oft  have  gazed  upon, 
And  fear  it  not ;  but  thou  hast  reft 
Away  the  only  rapture  left 
My  weary  soul :  a  joyous  dream, 
For  in  my  vision  did  it  seem 
That  far  from  chains  and  dungeon-cell 
I  heard  again  the  billows  swell 
In  joyous  music,  wild  and  grand, 
On  palmy  southern  shore  and  strand. 
Once  more  I  ruled  my  realm,  the  sea ; 
'  For  O,  methought  that  I  was  free  !  " 

"  And  so  thou  art,"  the  maid  replies ; 

"  Thy  chains  are  broken,  wake  !  arise  ! 
Know  me  a  friend,  thy  trust  be  mine, 
And  life  and  liberty  are  thine." 
A  moment,  in  a  strange  amaze 
The  Rover  bends  his  startled  gaze 
Upon  the  kneeling  figure  there, 
As  tho'  for  proof  'tis  not  of  air. 
Then  lifts  the  loosened  chain  —  and  now 
The  warm  blood  springeth  to  his  brow, 
And  once  again  his  soul  of  pride 
Upswelleth  with  its  pulsing  tide ; 
For  dark  despair  hath  lost  control, 


LAMARA.  41 

And  hope  reviveth  in  his  soul. 
Erect  the  form  but  now  that  lay 
A  lifeless,  hopeless  mass  of  clay, 
And  in  his  eyes'  depths  btirneth  low 
A  something  of  their  ancient  glow  ; 
The  while  his  wasted  lips  impart 

The  wakened  feeling  of  his  heart. 

i 

"  I  know  not  whom  thou  mayest  be, 
Nor  why  thou'rt  moved  to  set  me  free ; 
I  trust  thee,  and  thy  will  obey, 
And  in  thy  keeping  do  I  lay 
The  life  my  youth  still  holdeth  dear, 
Tho'  death  my  soul  hath  ceased  to  fear. 
And  tho'  I  lose  the  venture,  still 
I'll  bless  thee  for  thy  noble  will." 
The  maid  by  word -nor  look  replies, 
But  faintly,  falteringly  sighs, 
The  while  the  Rover  bendeth  low 
To  kiss  his  savior's  hand  of  snow  ; 
Then  faintly  breathing,  "  Come,  'tis  time," 
She  leaves  the  cell ;  and  now  they  climb 
The  grim  and  narrow  granite  stair 
From  that  dark  cavern  of  despair. 
Still  holds  the  chief  her  snowy  hand, 
And  follows,  led  by  that  fair  band. 


42  LAM  A  R  A. 

Now  thro'  the  slightly-clefted  wall 

They  glide  into  a  lofty  hall, 

And  pause  a  moment  in  the  gloom  ; 

Alas  !  the  pause  of  death  and  doom  1 

For  ere  they  reach  the  lofty  door, 

The  sleeping  hound  upon  the  floor 

Awakes,  alarmed,  with  frenzied  yell 

Of  volume  deep,  the  captive's  knelW 

Then  springs,  with  sullen  growl  of  hate 

Upon  the  chief,  like  closing  fate. 

That  instant,  in  Lamara's  hand 

The  maid  hath  placed  an  unsheathed  brand ; 

And  bleeding,  backward  on  the  stone 

The  blood-hound  falls,  with  savage  groan, 

And,  gasping,  dyeth  where  he  fell : 

The  blow  so  blindly  made  struck  well. 

But  now  the  startled  sentries'  calls 
Resound  along  the  fortress  walls  ; 
And  gath'ring  torches  dance  and  glow  — 
Strange  harbingers  of  death  and  woe  ! 
Lenora  sinks  upon  the  stone 
And  clasps  his  hand  within  her  own, 
And  murmurs,  "  But  one  wish  have  I, 
;Tis  by  thy  falchion  now  to  die. 
For  I  have  led  thee  to  the  tomb, 
And  mocked  with  fruitless  hope  thy  doom  ! J> 


LAMARA.  43 

But  joyous  glow  the  lost  one's  eyes 
Amid  the  gloom  as  he  replies : 
*  O,  noblest,  truest  heart  of  earth, 
I  bless  the  day  that  gave  thee  birth  ! 
For  thou  hast  saved  thy  foeman's  name 
The  stigma  of  a  death  of  shame  ; 
A  sinner's  life  thou  couldst  not  save, 
Yet  oped  for  me  a  soldier's  grave  ; 
And  thou  hast  given  with  this  brand 
The  joy  of  dying  sword  in  hand. 
But  hark  !  the  larums  nearer  swell ! 
God  bless  thee,  noble  maid,  farewell ! n 

His  mantle  at  her  feet  he  throws, 
And  forward  springs  to  meet  his  foes, 
Who  throng  around  with  weapons  bare 
And  gleaming  'neath  the  torches'  glare. 
Stern  Aldamar  restrains  his  horde, 
And  bids  the  captive  yield  his  sword. 
But  coldly  calm  the  proud  reply  — 
"  No,  never,  chieftain,  till  I  die  ! " 
And  Aldamar,  with  eyes  of  flame, 
Cries,  "  Perish  in  our  sovereign's  name  ! " 
And  at  the  word  each  henchman's  brand 
Is  trembling  in  his  eager  hand ; 
And  'neath  the  torches'  glamour  red, 
They  close  around  in  phalanx  dread. 


44  LAMARA. 

Ah,  wondrous  well  in  days  before, 
That  hand  hath  learned  the  soldier's  lore  ! 
As  that  grim  falchion's  lightning  play 
Hath  proved  in  this  unequal  fray. 
On  every  hand,  tho'  fiercely  pressed, 
Their  sabres  vainly  seek  his  breast ; 
And  bent  and  shattered  'neath  his  own, 
Fall  crashing  on  the  ringing  stone. 
Yet  tho'  they  tempt  him  o'er  and  o'er, 
He  draws  no  drop  of  human  gore. 

But  lo  !  what  madness  moves  him  now  ? 

His  hand  is  staid,  his  pallid  brow 

And  burning  eyes  are  turned  to  where, 

Beside  him,  as  he  standeth  there 

A  picture  hangs,  of  beauty  rare. 

A  form  of  all-enchanting  grace^ 

A  most  divine  and  lovely  face  ; 

The  brow,  with  raven  hair  enwound, 

And  with  a  golden  circlet  crowned. 

Lamara,  turn  !  the  sword  is  nigh  ! 

Awake  !  or  in  thy  vision  die  ! 

In  vain,  in  vain  !  the  chance  is  gone, 

The  coward  blade  comes  gleaming  on 

And  in  his  blood  Lamara  falls, 

Not  knowing  of  his  wound,  and  calls 

In  words  that  strike  his  hearers  dumb 


LAMARA.  45 

"  O,  mother,  mother  !  thou  art  come  ! " 
Stern  Aldamar,  in  wild  amaze, 
Bends  on  the  scene  his  staring  gaze ; 
The  while,  the  Rover,  trembling,  wild, 
And  eager  as  a  yearning  child, 
Uplifts  with  burning  sobs  and  sighs 
Toward  the  face  his  longing  eyes ; 
Nor  feels  the  dread  and  fatal  drains 
That  draw  the  life-blood  from  his  veins. 

The  chieftain  shudders,  gasps,  and  reels, 
Then  low  beside  Lamara  kneels, 
And  draws,away  the  crimson  vest, 
And  laying  bare  the  Rover's  breast, 
The  maddened  eyes  of  Aldamar 
Behold  a  deep  and  ancient  scar  ; 
A  wound  long-healed,  yet  newly  red. 
A  cross  of  crimson,  strange  and  dread  ! 

As  falls  the  oak  before  the  storm, 
So  falls  that  proud  but  stricken  form 
In  wildest  anguish,  prostrate,  prone, 
Upon  the  cold,  unyielding  stone. 
For  all  —  the  love  that  bursts  control, 
His  breaking  heart,  his  yearning  soul, 
Acknowledge  in  that  fallen  one 
A  lost,  a  loved,  an  erring  son  ! 


46  LAMARA. 

Now  wild  confusion  reigns,  and  all 

Is  tumult  in  the  lofty  hall ; 

The  shadow  of  a  nameless  dread 

Hangs  chill  and  heavy  overhead. 

And  some  are  calm  in  mute  despair, 

And  others  rave  in  frenzy  there. 

While  some,  with  wild  and  wond'ring  eyes 

Devour  the  Rover  as  he  lies, 

As  dreading  in  their  spirits'  gloom 

They  know  not  what  of  death  and  doom. 

But  Aldamar  hath  risen  now, 
With  pallid  lips  and  ashen  brow ; 
And  lifts  his  bleeding  son  to  rest 
And  die  upon  his  father's  breast. 
Lenora,  moaning,  kneels  beside, 
Her  white  robe  crimsoned  in  the  tide 
That  dyes  and  darkly  reddens  o'er 
The  whiteness  of  that  polished  floor. 
The  Rover  vainly  seeks  to  rise, 
Then  turns  his  darkly  glowing  eyes 
Upon  his  father,  bending  low 
Above  his  form,  in  silent  woe. 
And  in  tl^at  wordless  look  is  told 
So  much  these  swelling  hearts  enfold, 
So  much  of  spirits  anguish-riven, 
Of  sin  repented  and  forgiven, 


LAMARA.  47 

It  never  can  be  told  of  men, 
But  writ  above,  with  angel  pen. 

'  My  mother,  pure  and  holy  one," 
Lamara  murmurs,  "  own  thy  son  ! 
For  I  have  washed  away  the  stains 
In  all  the  current  of  my  veins  ; 
And  with  my  heart's  outpouring  flood 
Have  freed  my  soul  from  stain  of  blood. 
And,  maiden,  thou  who  wouldst  have  spared 
Thy  foe  the  doom  that  heav'n  prepared, 
O,  let  me  bless  with  dying  breath 
The  hand  that  led  me  thus  to  death  ! 
Thou  hast  my  mother's  eyes,  and  I 
Would  beg  thee  kiss  me  ere  I  die ; 
And  let  my  final  slumber  be 
Beside  my  loved  and  changeless  sea  ! " 
And  as  her  lips,  all-trembling,  press 
.  His  own  in  yearning  love's  caress, 
His  eye  grows  dim  like  setting  sun, 
And  wild  Lamara's  sands  are  run. 


- 


J 


RENE, 


Midnight,  midnight !  the  bell  hath  tolled 
In  brazen  pealings,  clear  and  bold. 
Six  hours  more  before  the  end, 
Six  hburs  more  on  earth  to  spend. 
On  earth,  O,  lying  words  !  this  cell 
Might  better  seem  a  vault  of  hell ! 
No,  not  of  earth  this  living  tomb, 
This  place  of  more'  than  midnight  gloom, 
Where  never  mis'ry's  cry  nor  moan 
Can  pierce  the  massive  walls  of  stone 
That  fence  this  narrow  paving  'round, 
'Gainst  which  my  clanking  chains  resound, 
Where  e'en  the  soul  is  bound  —  ah,  me  ! 
It  must,  and  yet  —  how  can  it  be  ? 


IRENE.  49 

How  strange,  how  strange  it  seems  that  I, 
The  child  of  wealth  and  lineage  high, 
A  felon's  cell  should  occupy  ! 
Condemned  his  awful  death  to  die, 
To  bear  the  dreadful  doom  of  shame, 
That  blasts  fore'er  the  victim's  name  ! 
Ay,  strange,  as  wond'rous  strange  it  seems 
As  shifting  scenes  in  fevered  dreams. 

I  dream,  yea,  I  !  in  waking  sleep 

I  dream  as  tho'  in  slumber  deep ; 

Of  fields  of  strife,  of  scenes  of  war, 

Of  meadows  crimson-dyed  with  gore  ; 

I  see  the  battle-clouds  arise 

To  veil  once  more  the  southern  skies, 

And  in  that  death-smoke,  dun  and  brown, 

The  fiery  squadrons  charging  down  ; 

I  see  the  fallen  gasp  and  die, 

I  hear  again  the  battle  cry. 

And  oft  —  O,  God  !  —  within  my  ear 
The  village  bell  I  seem  to  hear ; 
And  as  I  list  its  silver  tone, 
Backward  by  mem'ry's  zephyrs  blown, 
My  wayward  thoughts  and  passions  fly 
Unto  the  past,  the  long  gone  by. 


50  IRENE. 

And  then  I  dream  of  hazel  dells, 
Of  flow'ry  cliffs  and  mimic  fells, 
Of  sun-lit  hills  and  forest  fens, 
Of  crystal  brooks  and  shaded  glens, 
Of  those  who  sleep  beneath  the  green, 
And  of  thy  face,  fair,  false  Irene. 

Irene  !  O,  ne'er  on  earth  was  seen 

A  fairer  face  than  thine,  Irene  ! 

Dark  eyes  of  tender  light  below 

A  brow  as  white  as  driven  snow ; 

And  'round  it  streamed  thy  golden  hair, 

As  soft  and  light  as  summer  air ; 

And  added  to  thy  lovely  face 

A  form  of  most  bewild'ring  grace. — 

Not  words  alone  thy  charms  can  tell, 

The  charms  that  doomed  my  soul  to  hell ! 

I  see  thee  now,  as  fair  as  when 
Thou  stoodst  beside  me  in  the  glen  — 
Thy  slender  hand  within  mine  own  — 
And  murmured  in  that  thrilling  tone, 
Dazzling  my  eyes  the  while  with  thine, 
That  thou  wert  ever  —  only  mine. 
And  as  the  tender  accents  fell, 
My  soul  believed  thee,  ah,  too  well ! 


IRENE.  51 

How  well  remember  I  the  night 
That  closed  upon  that  day's  delight ; 
The  lonely  ramble  o'er  the  moor, 
And  by  the  silver  lakelet's  shore, 
When  restless  joy.  so  lately  known, 
Had  sent  me  forth  to  muse  alone ; 
How,  wand'ring  thus  with  footstep  free, 
I  dreamed,  I  dreamed  alone  of  thee. 

But  O,  that  sharp  and  anguished  cry 
The  balmy  night-wind  wafted  by  ! 
The  voice  that  through  my  being  thrilled, 
And  heart  and  soul  together  chilled. 
'Twas  his  alone,  that  stricken  tone, 
The  only  brother  I  had  known. 

In  wild  abandon  of  despair 

I  found  him  Tying  prostrate  there, 

And  knelt  beside  him  where  he  lay, 

In  wond'ring  fear,  and  strove  to  say 

Some  words  to  make  that  anguish  less, 

Whose  cause  I  knew  not,  nor  could  guess. 

But  when  his  straining  gaze  descried 

That  I  was  kneeling  by  his  side, 

His  grief  and  woe  the  knowledge  seemed 

To  change  to  frenzy ;  wildly  gleamed 

His  blood-shot  eyes  with  flashing  flame, 


52 


IRENE. 

And  with  a  burning  curse,  my  name 
He  shrieked  in  madness  fierce  and  dread, 
From  bitten  lips  of  bloody  red. 
A  moment  —  and  I  saw  him  stand 
My  form  before,  and  then  a  hand 
That  held  a  dagger  bright  and  bare 
Descended,  cleaving  thro'  the  air  ! 

What  tho'  that  time  I  seemed  to  feel 

Within  my  heart  the  fatal  steel,  • 

What  tho'  his  purpose  seemed  as  fell 

As  ever  moved  a  fiend  of  hell, 

Yet  something  still  that  purpose  broke, 

And  something  foiled  that  deadly  stroke ; 

For,  when  hung  motionless  his  arm, 

I  still  had  neither  hurt  nor  harm. 

By  God's  decree  'twould  ne'er  be  said 

My  blood  a  brother's  hand  had  shed  ! 

Yet  still  before  me  did  he  stand, 
And  raved,  and  cursed  his  feeble  hand, 
That  had,  he  said,  performed  so  ill 
The  vengeful  purpose  of  his  will. 
And  yet  no  clue  that  I  could  find 
Might  clear  the  doubt  within  my  mind  ; 
Until  at  length  in  wild  despair 
He  flung  himself  to  earth,  and  there 


IRENE.  53 

Gave  forth  in  one  heart-rending  wail 
To  my  astonished  ear,  the  tale  : 
A  cry  as  if  his  heart  would  break  — 
"  Irene,  I  spare  him  —  for  thy  sake  ! " 

Ah,  well !  his  madness  soon  was  o'er, 
And  never  Spartan  hero  bore 
With  calmer  mien  the  torment  dread 
Wherewith  his  mangled  spirit  bled. 
And  none  save  I  did  ever  know 
What  weight  he  bore  of  secret  woe  ; 
Nor  how  with  every  passing  day, 
When  seemed  he  gayest  of  the  gay, 
Mid  scenes  of  joy  and  youthful  bloom 
He  prayed  for  rest  within  the  tomb. 

How  sharp  and  dread  like  sweeping  flame, 
The  dark  and  deathful  tidings  came 
Of  shameful  war  and  civil  strife, 
And  brothers  striving  life  for  life  ! 
When  southern  chivalry  rode  forth 
To  dare  the  valor  of  the  north  ; 
When  all  from  east  to  west  the  fire 
Of  raging  war  rose  ever  higher, 
And  plains  and  mountains,  far  and  wide, 
"  Were  burnt  and  torn  and  crimson-dyed. 


54  IRENE. 

No  orange  wreath  nor  garland  now 
To  deck  my  darling's  snowy  brow  ! 
No  dreams  for  me  of  wedded  joy 
That  worldly  cares  should  ne'er  alloy. 
Where'er  the  roving  eye  could  turn 
Was  seen  preparing  swift  and  stern. 
And  when  at  last  one  stirring  day 
The  martial  whirl-wind  rolled  away, 
It  bore  amid  its  myriad  life 
My  brother  and  myself  to  strife. 
I  dreamed  of  her  and  triumph  high, 
And  he  —  I  knew  it  —  prayed  to  die. 

How  clear  before  my  vision  shines 

That  maze  of  long  and  gleaming  lines 

That  wreathed  that  storied  hill-slope,  where 

In  after  years  he  won  his  prayer. 

How  deep  within  my  hearing  come 

The  thrilling  sounds  of  trump  and  drum 

That  rang  that  morning,  wild  and  shrill, 

Around  about  that  fatal  hill. 

Again  my  fingers  seem  to  feel 

The  brazen  hilted  sword  of  steel 

That  gleamed  that  morning,  bright  and  bare, 

Within  my  grasp  while  waiting  there, 

Before  my  squadron's  ranks,  the  call 

To  launch  us  like  a  bloody  pall, 


IRENE.  55 

A  sweeping  tide  of  death  and  woe, 
Upon  the  hostile  ranks  below. 

At  last  it  came  :  and  shout  and  cheer 

Went  rolling  upward,  wild  and  clear, 

In  swelling  chorus  high  and  higher, 

As  like  an  avalanche  of  fire, 

With  buried  spur  and  slackened  rein, 

We  thundered  downward  to  the  plain  ; 

Where  mid  their  smoke-wreaths  dark  and  dim 

The  foemen  waited,  calmly  grim. 

And  now  came  bursting  ball  and  shell, 
Those  awful  messengers  and  fell ! 
And  low  before  their  fiery  breath 
Sank  scores  of  warrior  hearts  in  death 
Ah,  many  fell  in  that  wild  ride, 
And  one,  my  brother,  by  my  side. 
I  saw  him  wave  his  sword  on  high, 
Beheld  his  dark  and  lustrous  eye, 
I  heard  his  last,  his  dying  cry, 
Then  saw  him  headlong  fall  and  die  ! 

I 

They  say  I  seemed  a  fiend  that  hour, 
That  with  a  madman's  frenzied  power, 
In  hate  unchained  and  demon  wrath, 
I  hewed  the  foemen  from  my  path. 


56  IRENE. 

It  may  have  been,  for  in  that  fight 
I  fought  in  darkness  and  in  night ; 
And  frenzy  reigned  within  my  mind, 
And  passing  left  no  trace  behind. 

We  laid  my  brother  where  he  died, 
A  stately  cedar's  stem  beside ; 
And  carved  thereon  his  spotless  name 
And  what  was  his  of  martial  fame. 
And  there  —  forgetting  vanquished  foe, 
Triumphant  friends  —  I  knelt  me  low, 
And  mourned  in  deep  and  burning  grief 
Which  not  the  favor  of  my  chief, 
The  added  rank  my  charge  had  won, 
The  deeds  they  said  my  arm  had  done, 
The  pride  my  heart  was  wont  to  feel 
Of  old  in  stoic  strength,  could  heal. 
Why  came  I  safe  from  war's  alarms, 
Nor  died,  as  he,  in  glory's  arms. 

Now  o'er  the  land's  encrimsoned  breast 
There  came  a  fleeting  lull  of  rest ; 
The  mighty  ministers  of  death 
Had  paused  a  moment,  as  for  breath. 
And  oft  my  yearning  heart  would  roam 
Toward  my  distant  southern  home ; 
My  mind,  forgetting  war,  would  dwell 


IRENE.  57 

On  scenes  of  youth  remembered  well ; 
And  longingly  and  fondly  yearn 
For  but  one  fleeting  hour's  return. 
At  last  my  eager  wish  was  known ; 
A  brjef  dismissal  was  my  own  ; 
And  day  and  night,  thro'  weary  hours, 
I  flew  toward  the*  Land  of  Flowers. 

Twas  night, —  and  mid  a  thrilling  scene 
Of  mirth  and  joy  I  found  Irene. 
Her  brow  as  peerless  as  of  old, 
Her  hair  the  same  familiar  gold ; 
And  burned  the  same  soft  glamour  bright 
Within  her  eyes  of  tender  light ; 
And  bore  she  yet  as  royal  mien 
As  ever  crowned  the  noblest  queen. 
And  like  a  queen  of  boundless  power 
And  despot  will  she  ruled  the  hour. 

Behind  a  window's  silken  screen, 
Unspied,  unknown,  I  watched  the  scene  : 
The  lost  and  raptured  throng  that  hung 
Upon  the  music  of  her  tongue  ; 
Or  basked  beneath  her  glowing  eyes 
As  lost  in  joys  of  Paradise  ; 
And  noted  how  her  lightest  word 
Or  wish  was  answered  soon  as  heard ; 


IRENE. 

And  'round  their  hearts  how  wondrous  well 
Had  twined  the  meshes  of  her  spell. 
And,  gazing,  I  could  not  control 
The  nameless  dread  that  filled  my  soul. 

Anon  I  strolled  amid  the  gloom 
Where  rose  the  garden's  Vare  perfume, 
And  laid  my  burning  forehead  bare 
Unto  the  chilly  midnight  air, 
To  soothe  the  dull,  tormenting  pain 
That  throbbed  within  my  aching  brain. 
At  last  I  paused  in  wearied  calm 
Beneath  a  fair  and  drooping  palm, 
And  thought  with  nameless  fear  upon 
The  present  and  the  days  agone. 
And  while  I  mused,  a  strolling  pair 
Approached  me  in  the  darkness  there. 

I  caught  amid  the  half-lit  gloom 
The  waving  of  a  soldier's  plume  ; 
And  knew  a  comrade  made  of  yore 
Mid  battle's  wild  and  awful  roar, 
What  time  his  prompt  and  daring  hand 
Had  saved  me  from  a  northern  brand. 
The  lady's  face  was  lost  in  shade, 
But  while  their  careless  steps  they  stayed 
Beside  me  by  my  leafy  screen, 


IRENE.  59 

I  heard  the  whispered  word  —  "  Irene  ! " 

And  faint  and  low  the  answ'ring  tone, 

And  these  the  words  —  "  My  own,  my  own  ! " 

They  came  as  comes  a  doomed  one's  knell ! 
Upsprang  the  fires  of  hate  and  hell 
Within  my  heart,  and  raging  pain 
Swept,  burning,  thro'  my  maddened  brain. 
My  blade,  till  now  a  stainless  brand, 
Gleamed  dimly  bright  within  my  hand ; 
The  angel,  weeping,  fled  my  soul, 
The  raging  fiend  usurped  control ; 
And  while  yet  strove  my  feeble  will, 
The  demon,  hissing,  whispered,  "  Kill ! " 

O,  God  !  how  fell  that  fatal  blow  ? 

Why  lay  he  there  so  pale  and  low  ? 

A  flowing  torrent  dyeing  o'er 

His  noble  breast  with  crimson  gore. 

Was  his  the  blood  that  dyed  my  blade  ? 

Had  I  my  savior  so  repaid, 

That  by  my  hand  his  life  was  ta'en, 

And  I  a  felon  worse  than  Cain  ? 

While  she,  for  whom  that  life  he  gave, 

And  died  her  worthless  own  to  save, 

Unheeding  his  imploring  moan, 

Tore  loose  the  hand  that  clasped  her  own, 


60  IRENE. 

And,  shrieking,  fled  away  from  sight 
In  frenzy,  and  in  wild  affright. 

O,  brother  !  sleeping  where  you  fell ! 
Was  this  the  maid  you  loved  so  well  ? 
.  Was  hers  the  love  that  drove  you  forth 
To  face  the  war-cloud  of  the  north, 
And  bless  with  last  and  dying  breath 
The  awful  thunderbolt  of  death  ? 
O,  would  to  God  I  might  have  died 
And  now  were  lying  by  your  side  ! 
For  had  it  been  my  lot  to  fall 
Amid  the  smoke  of  battle's  pall, 
A  soldier's  death  had  spared  my  name 
A  felon's  dark  and  lasting  shame. 
t 

I  strove  in  vain  to  stanch  the  flood 
Of  streaming  and  out-pouring  blood ; 
And  even  while  I  knelt  beside 
His  cold  and  lowly  form,  he  died. 
And,  dying,  from  his  lips  there  came 
No  curse  upon  his  slayer's  name ; 
But  holding  in  his  own  the  hand 
That  had  so  foully  burst  the  strand 
Of  life,  he  passed  beyond  the  grave, 
His  dying  word  that  he  —  forgave  ! 


IRENE.  6l 

They  cast  me  in  this  cave  of  gloom, 
And  bade  me  wait  a  felon's  doom. — 

But  hark  !  what  means  that  rolling  sound  ? 

The  trembling  thrill  that  shakes  the  ground  ? 

Again,  again  !  and  now  I  know 

The  roaring  thunder  of  the  foe  ! 

The  town  is  doomed  !  —  No,  wild  and  high 

Resounds  our  batteries'  reply  ! 

Now  rings  the  deep  and  sullen  roar 

That  tells  of  dark  and  bloody  war 

Within  my  strained  and  yearning  ear  ; 

And  I  am  chained  and  fettered  here  ! 

Forbidden  by  my  country's  laws 

To  die  a  soldier  in  her  cause  !  » 

Again  I  hear  the  cannon's  roar  — 

O,  heav'n  !  if  I  were  free  once  more  ! 

Is  there  no  friendly  bolt  to  fall 

^nd  rend  away  this  massive  wall  ? 

Great  God!         ***** 

*         *         *         Within  the  shattered  cell 

There  burst  a  red  and  flaming  shell ; 

And  calm  and  still  the  doomed  one  lay, 

A  lifeless  mass  of  blackened  clay. 


T 


HE 


UN 


"Draw  nearer,  dear  abbess,"  the  neophyte  said, 
"Draw  nearet,  still  nearer,  kneel  down  by  my  bed; 
Your  hand  to  my  forehead — ah,  now  that  is  well — 
And  list !  'tis  a  maiden's  heart  romance  I  tell. 

"I  love  thee,  for,  gazing  upon  thy  calm  face, 
The  lines  of  my  dead  mother's  features  I  trace ; 
The  same  holy  look,  free  from  evil  or  guile, 
The  same  tender,  loving,  and  pitying  smile. 

"'Twould  seem,  were  it  not  for  this  dull,  aching  pain, 
The  old  happy  days  had  returned  once  again ; 
When  she  used  to  listen,  caressing  my  brow, 
The  tales  I  would  tell  as  I  tell  to  thee  now. 


THE    NUN.  63 

"  My  mother  !  ah,  yes,  'twas  my  mother  alone  ; 
The  face  of  a  father  1  never  had  known  : 
He  died  at  the  time  when  the  red,  gory  flood 
Swept  over  fair  France,  and  the  rivers  ran  blood. 

"  He  died  for  his  king,  for  his  monarch  and  lord, 
The  king  he  had  served  with  his  heart  and  his  sword; 
And  loyal  in  death  as  in  life  he  remained, 
And,  dying,  he  fell  with  his  honor  unstained. 

"A  happier  fate  than  his  bride's,  who,  out-driven 
From  France,  bleeding  France,  with  a  heart  torn 

and  riven, 
Must  flee  with  her  child,  o'er  the  wide  world  to 

roam, 
And  seek  amid  strangers  a  spot  to  call  home. 

"Beside  a  blue  lake,  in  a  fair,  southern  land, 
\Yhose  billows  e'er  rolled  on  a  gold-gleaming  strand, 
Within  a  gray  castle,  high-towered  and  vast, 
The  fugitive  twain  found  a  haven  at  last. 

"And  there  in  her  sorrow,  unnoticed  and  lone, 
Unknowing  all  others,  to  others  unknown, 
The  sad  widow  dwelt,  and  her  heart-ache  beguiled 
By  teaching  pure  lessons  of  faith  to  her  child. 


64  THE    NUN. 

"And  there,  far  away  from  the  stranger-world's  eye, 
The  days  and  the  years  of  my  childhood  went  by; 
And  maidenhood,  beckoning,  claimed  me  her  own, 
Ere  dreamed  I  that  child-life  forever  had  flown. 

"And  ne'er  since  the  day  dread  disaster  had  hurled 
My  mother,  myself,  in  despair  from  the  world, 
And,  fleeing,  we  found  peace  and  rest  in  its  halls, 
Had  stranger  been  seen  in  the  old  castle  walls. 

"And,  saving  the  servitors,  trusted  and  tried, 
I  knew  not  a  being  my  mother  beside  ; 
I  knew  not,  nor  wished  to — -the  world  was  to  me 
A  misty  unknown  that  I  cared  not  to  see. 

"But  He  who  in  majesty  filleth  the  throne 
Of  heaven  e'er  bendeth  our  wills  to  His  own ; 
The  calm  of  the  present  I  fancied  might  be 
Forever  He  took  in  His  wisdom  from  me. 

"Twas  evening ;  a  fair,  balmy  eve  of  July, 
While  low  hung  the  sun  in  the  glorified  sky, 
When  fair  from  the  verge  of  a  hill-top  of  green 
I  gazed  in  enraptured  delight  on  the  scene. 

"  I  saw  the  fair  lake  with  its  deep-tinted  blue, 
The  forest  beyond  with  its  emerald  hue, 
The  garden,  the  castle,  and  wondered  if  e'er 
Was  vision  of  nature  more  peaceful  and  fair. 


THE    NUN.  65 

"More  peaceful — ah,  heaven!  the  thought  had  not 

fled 

My  mind,  when 'I  paled  at  the  galloping  tread 
That  beat  from  the  hoofs  of  a  charger,  who  came 
As  wild  down  the  vale  as  a  tempest  of  flame. 

"  He  tore  thro'  the  valley,  he  sprang  up  the  hill, 
And  breathless  and  panting  before  me  stood  still; 
When  wordless  and  speechless,  the  rider  like  lead 
Sank  down  from  his  saddle,  and  lay  as  if  dead. 

"The  garb  and  the  arms  of  a  soldier  he  bore, 
And  one  who  had  lately  fierce-striven  in  war; 
And  never,  O,  sister,  nay,  never  was  seen 
A  visage  of  nobler  or  kinglier  mien. 

"His  dress  was  discolored,  and  tangled  his  hair, 
His  face  was  as  white  as  the  shroud  of  despair; 
While  helmet  and  cuirass  were  cloven  in  twain, 
And  fearfully  dyed  with  a  crimson-hued  stain. 

"  Ere  then  had  the  breath  of  the  outer  world's  strife, 
Low  murmuring  thrilled  mid  the  calm  of  our  life; 
But  never  till  now  had  the  battle's  dark  stain 
Been  seen  in  the  bounds  of  our  lovely  domain. 

"No  moment  for  sighing — I  knelt  by  him  there, 
And  loosed  the  cleft  helm  from  his  fair  flowing  hair; 


66  THE    NUN. 

Flung  sashes  encrimsoned  and  cuirass  aside, 
And  strove,  all  unskillful,  to  stanch  the  dark  tide. 

"And  aid  from  the  castle  came  soon  at  my  calls. 
And  borne  was  the  youth  to  its  sheltering  walls; 
There  nursed  and  attended,  untiring  and  well, 
Till  burst  was  the  web  of  the  death-angel's  spell. 

"  Each  day  he  grew  stronger  and  prouder  of  air, 
Yet  seemed  he  not  willing  to  flee  from  our  care ; 
While  loth  was  my  mother  to  lose  him — and  I 
Shrank  back  from  the  parting,  tho'  knew  I  not  why. 

"  He  knew  we  had  saved  him,  tho'  never  a  word 
To  rouse  recollection  from  us  had  he  heard ; 
And  deeper  devotion  was  shown  in  his  mien 
Than  ever  was  yielded  the  haughtiest  queen. 

"His  story  was  mine,  only  deeper  the  stain, 
His  parents,  most  noble,  together  were  slain, 
When  ruled  the  wild  revel  of  carnage  and  crime, 
All  o'er  the  stained  fields  of  lost  France's  fair  clime. 

"Tossed  young  on  life's  ocean,  a  parentless  child, 
His  youth  had  been  stormy  and  rugged  and  wild ; 
Unblessed  by  the  hand  of  affection's  fond  care, 
To  warn  in  temptation  or  soothe  in  despair. 


THE    NUN.  67 

"My  mother  he. claimed  as  his  own,  and  out-poured 
The  wealth  of  his  heart  in  a  love  that  adored; 
And  kindly  she  smiled  on  the  motherless  one. 
And  pitied  his  yearning,  and  called  him  her  son. 

"O,  sister,  how  like  the  dim  ghost  of  a  dream 
That  season  of  joyousness,  deep  and  supreme! 
When  heaven's  blue  arch  smiled  divinely  above, 
And  earth  was  the  home  of  delight  and  of  love. 

"My  mother  was  his,  and  his  sister  was  I, 
But  soon  did  he  speak  of  a  tenderer  tie; 
And  not  till  that  moment's  surprise  had  T  known 
The  heart  that  he  wished  was  already  his  own. 

"Dear  friend  of  my  bosom,  thou  lovest  me  well, 
Then  pardon  me  now  if  I  linger  to  dwell 
On  moments  of  joy,  that  were  deigneol  me  before 
The  cloud  of  affliction  my  life  darkened  o'er. 

."O,  heaven!  to  think  of  the  rapturous  hours 
We  spent  in  that  Eden  of  verdure  and  flowers ! 
Mine  eyes  may  grow  dim  at  the  memory's  thrill, 
But  sad  tho'  it  be,  I  will  dwell  on  it  still. 

"The  nights  on  the  lake  when  we  drifted  afar, 
Entranced  'neath  the  light  of  each  glittering  star; 


I 

68  THE    NUN. 

And  dreamed  of  their  course  through  the  luminous 

skies, 
Or  gazed  at  them,  shrined  in  each  other's  dark  eyes. 

"Ah,  well,  let  it  pass,  for  the  time  hath  gone  by, 
And  better  it  were  that  its  spectre  should  die, 
Tho'  dearer  the  thought  of  that  season's  delight 
By  far  than  its  gloomy  and  swift-closing  night. 

"O,  cruel  the  message  that  told  us  'twas  o'er, 
And  called  him  again  to  the  strife  and  the  war; 
And  e'en  while  in  anguish  for  courage  I  prayed, 
My  darling  had  gone,  and  the  summons  obeyed. 

"He  swore  by  the  God  and  the  angels  above 
Not  distance  nor  absence  could  lessen  his  love; 
That  die  tho'  he  might  on  the  red  field  of  fame, 
His  lips  would  move  latest  in  blessing  my  name. 

"He  went  at  the  call,  and  he  bore  to  the  strife 
The  glow  and  the  joy  and  the  light  of  my  life; 
And  now  in  our  valley  of  beauty  and  bloom 
There  lingered  a  shadow  of  darkness  and  gloom. 

"A  shadow — O,  heaven!  in  truth  and  in  name 
It  was  to  the  blackness  of  horror  that  came; 
When  all  mid  the  glorious  autumnal  pride 
My  loved  mother  faded  and  painlessly  died. 


THE    NUN.  69 

"We  laid  her  to  rest  where  the  lake's  ripples  lave 
The  base  of  the  hillock  wherein  was  her  grave;  • 
And  piled  the  green  sod  on  the  holiest  breast 
That  ever  the  cares  of  this  world  had  oppressed. 

"And  e'en  while  in  agony,  prostrate  and  low, 
I  lay  on  that  grave  in  the  wildness  of  woe, 
The  last  pang  of  torture  hung  trembling — and  fell, 
And  hope  in  my  heart  dying  whispered — farewell. 

"There  came  one  who  gazed  with  compassionate 

sighs, 

And  witnessed  my  anguish  with  pitying  eyes; 
Then,  mournfully  stooping,  he  placed  by  me  there 
A  doublet  encrimsoned,  a  tress  of  my  hair. 

"Dark-browed  was  that  soldier,  and  battered  and 

scarred, 

While  care  had  upon  him  pressed  sternly  and  hard ; 
Yet  turned  he  away,  for  his  soul  could  not  dare 
The  sight  of  rny  awful  and  utter  despair. 

"My  darling  was  dead — on  the  field  he  had  died; 
Had  fall'n  in  the  flush  of  his  warrior  pride ; 
And  faithful  and  true,  with  his  last  dying  breath 
Had  sent  me  the  tokens  of  love  and  of  death. 


70  THE    NUN. 

"That  night  did  I  flee  from  the  castle  alone, 
Unheard  was  my  step  on  the  threshold  of  stone ; 
I  passed  thro'  the  garden  unchecked  in  my  flight, 
And  glided  away  like  a  spirit  of  night. 

"A  flame  in  my  heart  ever  hurried  me  on, 
For  wild  was  my  brain,  and  my  reason  was  gone; 
And  thus,  all  alone,  'neath  the  night's  starry  host, 
I  flew  on  my  path  like  a  sin-burdened  ghost. 

"Long  leagues,  weary  leagues,  with  a  wild  strength 

inspired, 

I  hurried  me  onward,  unchecked  and  untired; 
And  not  till  the  day  in  the  far  east  arose, 
I  hid  me  in  covert  and  sought  for  repose. 

"I  slept  from  the  dawn  to  the  closing  of  day, 
But  rose  with  the  (}ark  and  again  sped  away; 
And,  famished  and  moaning,  in  anguish  and  dread, 
At  midnight  I  stood  in  a  field  of  the  dead. 

"I  know  not,  e'en  now,  if  'twas  there  that  he  died: 
The  field  was  but  one — there  are  many  beside; 
And  yet  had  my  brain  in  the  whirl  of  despair 
Impelled  me  to  come  and  to  seek  for  him  there. 

"But  vainly,  ah,  vainly,  I  traversed  the  plain, 
And  scanned  the  dark  forms  of  the  warrior  slain ; 


•  THE    NUN.  71 

Till  memory,  courage,  and  strength  fled  away, 
And  breathless  and  cold,  mid  the  lifeless  I  lay." 

"  Twas  there  that  we  found  thee,  a  lost,  dying  child,3' 
The  sister  began,  in  a  voice  sweet  and  mild, 

"And  hither  we  brought  thee  with  fast-failing  breath, 
Already  close-clasped  to  the  cold  breast  of  death. 

"  We  prayed  and  we  nursed  thee  in  yearning  and  lovej 
And  healing  came  down  from  the  Throned-One 

above ; 

And  soon  shall  we  give  thee  the  welcoming  rite, 
And  care  will  forever  have  fled  from  thy  sight. 

"Then  turn,  O,  my  darling!  thy  thoughts  from  the 

past, 

And  him  on  whom  first  thy  affections  were  cast; 
For  lowly  and  silent  he  lies  'neath  the  sod, 
His  form  is  of  death,  and  thine  own  is  of  God." 

The  clang  of  a  sabre  re-echoed  and  rung, 
The  chamber's  closed  portal  wide  open  was  flung, 
And  into  the  room  with  impetuous  stride 
There  came  one  erect  in  a  warrior's  pride. 

The  maiden's  pale  face  seemed  the  face  of  the  dead, 
As  lightly  he  sprang  to  the  side  of  the  bed, 


72  THE    NUN. 

And  kissed  her  white  lips  with  a  passionate  cry, 
That  God  in  His  mercy  should  not  let  her  die. 

"Escaped  from  the  horrors  of  death's  burning  dart, 
For  months  have  I  sought  thee,  O,  loved  of  my 

heart ! 

And  now  that  at  last  in  my  arms  thou  art  thrown, 
I  bless  the  great  God  who  returns  me  mine  own!" 

The  maiden,  enthralled  in  the  calmness  of  rest, 
Lay  silent  and  still  on  the  soldier's  broad  breast; 
And  turned  on  the  abbess  that  deep,  pleading  gaze 
That  woman  ne'er  meets  but  its  prayer  she  obeys. 

The  nun  lowly  bent  o'er  the  maiden  so  pale, 
And  raised  from  her  forehead  the  snowy-white  veil; 
Then  joining  their  hands,  said,  "  To  thee  she  is 

given ; 
Whom  God  joins  together  let  never  be  riven." 


UTZEN, 


Tis  dark  midnight  o'er  vale  and  hill* 

And  faint  the  stars  on  high ; 
And  wrapped  in  slumber  calm  and  still 

The  dreaming  armies  lie. 
The  soldiers  rest  upon  their  arms, 

They  dare  not  lay  them  by, 
For  soon  may  waking  war's  alarms 

Unclose  each  sleeping  eye. 

Yet  tho'  they  know  the  latest  dream 

Of  many  will  have  fled, 
When  next  the  morning  sun  shall  beam 

Above  their  crimson  bed, 


74  LUTZEN. 

They  sleep,  unmindful  of  the  morn, 
And  coming  horrors  dread, 

Like  children,  pure  as  souls  unborn, 
And  calm  as  they  were  dead. 

But  slumber's  pall  about  the  eyes 

Of  all  may  not  be  drawn  ; 
The  chieftains  watch  the  eastern  skies 

And  wait  the  sign  of  dawn  ; 
And  swift  the  flying  riders  speed, 

Recalling  squadrons  gone, 
To  share  to-morrow's  woe  or  meed  — 

And  night  wears  slowly  on. 

And  there  are  others,  who  to-night 

While  wearied  soldiers  sleep, 
Enthralled  in  slumber's  calm  delight, 

Their  mystic  watches  keep. 
And  some  there  are  who  shout  aloud 

In  baneful  laughter  deep, 
And  some,  with  heads  in  sorrow  bowed, 

Who  wail  and  moan  and  weep. 

Yea,  there  are  angel-spirits  there 
Who  weep  in  grief  and  woe, 

As  floating  mid  the  perfumed  air 
They  watch  the  scene  below ; 


LUTZEN.  75 

And  others,  borne  on  midnight  wings, 

With  vampire  eyes  aglow, 
For  strife  to  them  a  revel  brings, 

When  human  blood  doth  flow. 

And  now  there  rolls  and  swelleth  high 

A  weird  and  awful  roar ; 
A  medley  as  of  hell-hounds  cry 

And  billows  on  the  shore ; 
And  cometh  Odin's  flying  ghost 

The  plains  and  mountains  o'er, 
And  stays  his  wild  and  raging  host 

Above  the  camps  of  war. 

And  now  from  mid  the  swarthy  crew 

Around  the  spectre  king, 
On  giant  steeds  of  sable  hue, 

The  Fatal  Sisters  spring ; 
And  lifting  flaming  falchions  high 

In  awful  tones  they  sing, 
And  thro'  the  arches  of  the  sky 

Their  thrilling  voices  ring. 

"  Soldiers,  rise  ! 
For  the  eastern  skies 
Are  gray  with  the  morning  breaking; 
Leave  your  sleep, 


76  LUTZEN. 

You  may  sleep  more  deep, 
And  wake  —  to  a  fearful  waking  ! 

"  Rise,  ye  brave  ! 

For  your  banners  wave, 

By  the  breath  of  morning  shaken  ; 

Grasp  your  arms, 
For  the  loud  alarms 
Of  the  battle  soon  shall  waken  ! 

"  Dream  no  more  ! 
For  the  time  is  o'er 
For  dreams  that  are  not  of  madness ; 

Ne'er  again 

Shall  the  anguished  brain 
Find  rest  in  the  sleep  of  gladness  ! 

"  On,  ye  brave  ! 
Win  a  soldier's  grave  — 
A  warrior's  noblest  haven  ! 

O,  the  shame 
That  shall  cloud  the  name 
Of  the  vile  and  fleeing  craven  ! 

"  Rise  and  on  ! 

For  the  night  is  gone, 

And  the  darkness  fades  in  pallor ; 


LUTZEN.  7  7 

Ye  who  die 

Have  a  home  on  high 

Reserved  for  the  sons  of  valor  ! " 

The  echo  of  that  awful  strain 

Of  horror  onward  flies, 
And  far  beyond  the  dusky  plain 

In  sullen  murmur  dies ; 
And  now,  from  misty  veils  that  pall 

And  hide  the  purer  skies, 
Far  sweeter  strains  of  music  fall, 

Yet  sad  with  angel  sighs. 

"Weep,  weep,  ye  high  and  holy  ones, 
Weep  for  your  fallen  earthly  sons, 
The  children  of  your  love  below  — 
Woe,  woe  ! 

"  Weep,  weep,  for  many  souls  shall  mourn, 
And  many  bleeding  hearts  be  torn, 
When  this  day's  tale  the  world  shall  know  — 
Woe,  woe ! 

"  Dread,  dread,  the  fires  of  hate,  and  stern, 
That  in  their  fallen  bosoms  burn, 
Who  deal  their  brother's  mortal  blow  — 
Woe,  woe ! 


78  LUTZEN. 

"  Weep,  weep,  ye  holy  ones  on  high, 
Weep,  weep,  to  see  your  children  die ; 
To  see  their  wasted  life-blood  flow  — 
Woe,  woe  ! 

Now  in  the  far-off  eastern  skies 

Appears  the  ghost  of  morn  ; 
And  from  the  hostile  camps  arise 

The  sounds  of  trump  and  horn  ; 
And  as  the  thrilling  music  flies, 

On  morning's  zephyrs  borne, 
'  The  ready  soldier  wakes  —  yet  sighs, 

From  joyous  visions  torn. 

But  lo  !  while  dimly  breaks  the  day 

Upon  the  misty  air, 
Before  his  long-  and  stern  array 

That  stands  in  rev'rence  there, 
While  morning's  zephyrs  breathe  and  play 

About  his  forehead  bare, 
Amid  the  twilight  dark  and  gray, 

A  monarch  kneels  in  prayer. 

He  prays,  his  dim  and  streaming  eyes 
Cast  upward  to  the  Throne ; 

And  often,  faint  with  feeling,  sighs, 
His  voice  almost  a  moan ; 


LUTZEN.  79 

But  when  'tis  o  er  doth  proudly  rise, 

And  deep  the  thrilling  tone, 
Wherewith,  unsheathing  brand,  he  cries, 
"  Now,  God,  defend  thine  own  !  " 

A  moment's  silence  stern  and  deep, 

And  o'er  the  coward's  frame 
And  in  his  mind,  wild  tremors  creep, 

And  thoughts  of  flight  and  shame. 
But  o'er  the  dauntless  visions  sweep 

The  gorgeous  dreams  of  fame,— 
And  now  the  baneful  thunders  leap 

From  mouths  of  belching  flame. 

The  battle-bugle  wildly  rings 

With  loud  and  angry  roar, 
The  flying  bullet,  shrieking,  sings 

Its  thrilling  song  of  war ; 
Each  standard-bearer  proudly  flings 

His  banner  free  once  more, 
And  fury  spreads  her  bloody  wings 

The  scene  of  conflict  o'er. 

The  royal  soldier  leads  his  host 

With  brow  unhelmed  and  bare, 

And  where  the  conflict  rages  most, 
Amid  its  lurid  glare, 


8o  LUTZEN. 

Where  bleeding  thousands  yield  the  ghost 

Mid  pools  of  red  despair, 
And  tamed  the  sternest's  pride  and  boast  — 

There  floats  his  golden  hair. 


Alas  !  and  woe  to  Sweden  now  ! 
For  low  hath  sunk  that  fearless  brow  ! 
And  from  his  maddened  ranks  arise 
The  wildest  of  all  anguished  cries, 
In  raging  volume  that  appalls  — 

"  He  falls  !  our  king,  our  father,  falls  ! " 
And  Wallenstein's  unblessed  array 
Hath  heard  the  tidings  mid  the  fray, 
And  lifts  a  fierce,  triumphant  cry. 

"  Revenge  !  revenge  !  "  the  Swedes  reply  ; 
And  storming  on  with  burning  tears, 
A  rolling  tide  of  gleaming  spears, 
Of  shining  helms  and  waving  swords, 
They  burst  upon  the  foemen's  hordes ; 
And  still  that  awful  battle-cry  — 

"  Revenge  !  revenge  !"  is  soaring  high. 

The  baleful  eyes  of  Wallenstein 
With  yet  a  darker  lustre  shine  ; 
He  sees  his  boasted  squadrons  quail 


LUTZEN.  8 1 

Before  the  Northmen's  leaden  hail ; 
His  chosen,  falling  score  by  score, 
The  sedges  crimsoned  with  their  gore. 
Since  morn,  in  iron  warrior  pride, 
Unshaken  have  they  stemmed  the  tide ; 
And  now  when  evening  closes  o'er 
The  scenes  of  tumult  and  of  war, 
The  dizzy  eye-balls  faint  and  reel 
Beneath  the  glare  of  clashing  steel, 
And  straining  legions,  weak  and  worn, 
Are  slowly,  sternly,  backward  borne. 

With  eyes  aglow  with  dread  and  ire, 
And  bosom  fierce  with  inward  fire, 
Now  stands  the  mighty  man  of  crime 
And  curses  lagging  Pappenheim. 

But  hark  thee,  chieftain,  hark  ! 
For  while  thy  wrathful  lips  have  cursed 
The  chief  who  won  their  blessing  erst, 

Comes  thrilling  through  the  dark 
A  sound  of  trampling  hosts  afar, 
A  deep  and  sternly  rolling  jar, 
And  grants  thy  strained  and  yearning  ear 
The  tidings  it  so  longed  to  hear. 
And  nearer  yet  and  nearer  come 
The  thrilling  sounds  of  trump  and  drum, 

A  baneful  battle  knell ; 


82  LUTZEN. 

With  naked  brand  and  leveled  spear 
The  host  of  Pappenheim  is  here  ; 

Now,  Northmen,  bear  ye  well ! 
Ten  thousand  riders  wild  with  hate, 
A  whirling  thunder-cloud  of  fate, 

Are  sweeping  on  your  line  ; 
And  dimly  mid  the  murky  gloom, 
That  seems  the  pall  of  death  and  doom, 
Emblazoned  helm  and  floating  plume 

And  iron  corslets  shine. 
Again  the  roaring  battle-cry  — 
"  Revenge  our  monarch  ! " —  rolleth  high 

From  Sweden's  living  rock. 
Down,  down  upon  their  knees  they  go, 
And  kneeling  silent,  stern,  and  low, 
With  frowning  brows  and  eyes  aglow, 

They  wait  the  foemen's  shock. 
Against  those  adamantine  walls 
The  coming  billow  breaks  and  falls 

With  foam  of  flying  gore  ; 
And  raging  Pappenheim  hath  done 
His  latest  deed  beneath  the  sun ; 
The  goal  is  won,  his  sands  are  run, 

His  life  of  crime  is  o'er. 
To  earth  he  falls, 
And  falling  calls 

In  raving  triumph  that  appalls, 


LUTZEN.  83 

"  O,  royal  foe  ! 
Thou  liest  low, 

And  blessed  at  last  thy  foeman  dies  ! 
Yea,  yieldeth  breath 
Rejoiced  in  death 

That  thy  dead  corse  hath  blessed  his  eyes  ! " 
And  wild  and  high 
The  Swedes  reply, 

"  Revenge  our  monarch's  death  or  die  !  " 
And  pouring  madly,  fiercely  forth, 
The  iron  warriors  of  the  north 

Have  turned  the  tide  of  war  ;        / 
The  fainting  foemen's  pride  and  boast, 
Like  billows  on  an  iron  coast, 

Are  staggered  back  once  more. 
Fly,  Friedland,  fly ! 
For  lo  !  on  high 

Above  his  onward  charging  host 
Behold  the  monarch's  awful  ghost ! 

The  saints  attend  him  nigh ; 
And  o'er  thy  head 
The  demons  dread 

Shrink  back  with  cowering  eye  ! 
Thy  soldiers  slain 
Bestrew  the  plain, 

And  there  in  death  they  lie 
On  crimson  sod 


84  LUTZEN. 

Where  late  they  trod, 

Ere  thou  hadst  felt  this  curse  of  God, 

Then  shame  not  thou  to  fly  ! 
And  yet,  O,  most  condemned  of  men  ! 
An  angel  and  avenging  pen 

Hath  writ  thy  name  on  high, 
In  letters  fraught  with  deepest  gloom, 
Within  the  book  of  fate  and  doom  ; 

And,  chieftain,  thou  shalt  die  ! 

And  from  that  field  where  lie  entombed 
The  hopes  that  had  so  fondly  bloomed, 
He  flies  —  a  man  condemned  and  doomed  ! 


Beat  the  drum  drearily, 

Sadly  and  wearily, 
Well  may  ye  mourn  when  your  hero's  life  closes. 

Angels  o'er-hover  him, 

Battle-wreaths  cover  him, 
Strewn  on  the  bier  where  your  sovereign  reposes. 

Mourn  for  the  warrior, 

None  hath  won  starrier 
Fame  in  humanity's  legend  and  story ; 

Flower  of  bravery, 

Foe  to  all  slavery, 
Gleams  not  a  stain  on  his  garland  of  glory. 


LUTZEN.  85 

Weep  for  the  royal  one, 

Every  true  loyal  one, 
Weep,  all  ye  sorrowing  millions  who  love  him ; 

Friend  of  humanity, 

Free  from  earth's  vanity, 
Lowly  to  God  in  the  highest  above  him. 

Think  how  he  fell  for  you, 

Fighting  so  well  for  you, 
Losing  himself  in  the  cause  he  defended ; 

O,  it  was  glorious  ! 

Falling  victorious, 
Ending  his  life  where  his  conquest  was  ended  ! 

Pure  and  untainte'd  one, 

Noble  and  sainted  one, 
Well  may  thy  sorrowing  children  adore  thee  ! 

Humble  and  lowly  one, 

Hail  thee  we  holy  one, 
Blessed  with  the  sanctity  fallen  from  o'er  thee  ! 

Beat  the  drum  drearily, 

Sadly  and  wearily, 
Well  may  we  mourn  when  our  hero's  life  closes  ! 

Angels  o'er-hover  him, 

Battle-wreaths  cover  him, 
Strewn  on  the  bier  where  our  sovereign  reposes. 


A  RUSSIAN  RIVER  LEGEND. 


Beside  the  rushing  river, 
'Neath  fair  Sonoma's  sky, 

All  armed  with  bow  and  quiver, 
They  laid  him  down  —  to  die. 

In  anguish  stern  and  tearless 
They  knelt  around  him  then, 

Their  chief,  the  loved,  the  peerless, 
The  bravest  among  men. 

They  thought  how  oft  he'd  led  them 
On  glory's  crimson  path, 

Till  tribes  and  nations  fled  them 
As  from  Sahulia's  wrath. 


A    RUSSIAN    RIVER     LEGEND.  87 

And  now  with  life  his  glory 

Would  fade  like  sudden  flame, 

And  only  tale  and  story 

Preserve  his  name  and  fame. 

No  moan  of  weak  repining 

Came  from  the  dying  one, 
But  like  a  king  reclining, 

He  watched  the  setting  sun. 

With  whisper  low  and  hollow, 

But  eyes  of  flaming  light, 
He  murmured,  "  Go,  I  follow 

To  joy  thro'  storm  and  night." 

A  falling  sunbeam  crowned  him, 

Gilding  the  eagle's  wing, 
And  those  who  knelt  around  him 

Bowed  as  before  a  king. 

Then  pointing  to  the  river 

As  it  went  rushing  on, 

"  To  this,"  he  said,  "  deliver 

My  corse  when  life  is  gone. 

"  Ye  know  the  olden  story 
Of  my  immortal  birth  : 


88  A    RUSSIAN    RIVER    LEGEND. 

To  gain  your  nation  glory 
I  came  upon  the  earth. 

"  Oppressed  and  undefended, 

Ye  called  me  from  the  sky : 
But  now,  my  mission  ended, 
They  call  for  me  on  high. 

"  And  never  pine  nor  willow 

Above  my  tomb  shall  wave, 
But  'neath  the  ocean  billow 
My  form  shall  find  a  grave." 

His  voice  grew  faint  and  broken, 

"  Farewell,  I  go,"  he  said  ; 
So  low  the  words  were  spoken, 
They  knew  not  he  was  dead. 


That  night  when  winds  were  wailing 
For  him  whose  soul  had  gone, 

Adown  the  stream,  slow-sailing 
A  frail  fleet  glided  on. 

No  oar  nor  paddle,  lifting, 

Flung  back  pale  Luna's  beam, 

But  drifting,  ever  drifting, 

They  glided  down  the  stream. 


A    RUSSIAN    RIVER    LEGEND.  89 

Four  torches  redly  gleaming 

Shone  from  the  bark  which  led  — 

Their  crimson  rays  o'er-streaming 
The  features  of  the  dead. 

He  seemed  amid  the  shining 

And  glowing  tongues  of  fire, 

In  majesty  reclining, 

A  monarch  on  his  pyre. 

Past  banks  of  pine  and  willow 
Slow  sailed  the  flaming  bier, 

And  riding  on  the  billow 

The  mourners  followed  near. 

No  moan  nor  cry  despairing 

To  mark  their  anguish  came  ; 

With  eye-balls  strained  and  glaring 
They  watched  the  beacon  flame. 

And  on  in  ceaseless  motion 

Upon  their  course  they  bore, 

Until  the  roaring  ocean 

Proclaimed  the  voyage  o'er. 

Then,  sighing,  sadly  turning, 

They  sought  a  sea-worn  cave, 


90  A    RUSSIAN    RIVER    LEGEND. 

To  watch  that  beacon  burning, 
All  ghostly,  on  the  wave. 

A  while,  in  splendor  glowing, 
It  beamed  —  a  golden  light, 

Then,  faint  and  fainter  growing, 
It  faded  from  their  sight. 

All  night  in  silent  sorrow 

They  waited  on  the  shore, 

As  hoping  with  the  morrow 

To  see  their  chief  once  more. 

But  as  the  legend  telleth 

A  God  but  once  may  fall, 

The  risen  Tyhee  dwelleth 
Within  Sahulla's  hall. 


Tho'  tribe  or  chieftain  never 
Are  named  in  hist'ry's  scroll, 

Their  memory  forever 
Will  linger  in  my  soul. 

For  oft,  when  stars  are  paling, 
I  see  them  down  the  stream 

Come  sailing,  slowly  sailing, 
Like  shadows  in  a  dream. 


ALABAMA, 


/ 


Onward,  onward,  stern,  undaunted, 
On  thro'  forests  weird  and  haunted, 
Scenes  the  white,  his  courage  vaunted 

Failing,  had  left  undenled, 
Toiling  onward,  onward  ever, 
On  with  steadfast,  strong  endeavor, 
Worn  and  faint  yet  resting  never, 

Came  the  children  of  the  wild. 

Came  with  bosoms  sorrow- riven, 
Came  in  bitter  woe — out-driven 
From  the  homes  their  God  had  given 
To  their  fathers  erst  of  yore, 


92  ALABAMA. 

With  no  hope  of  e'er  returning, 
But  with  pain  and  anguish  burning 
In  their  hearts,  and  only  yearning 
For  a  home  of  rest  before. 

Now  'twas  even,  and  the  gleaming 
Crimson  of  the  sunset's  beaming 
Shone  upon  a  forest  streajning 

With  the  moss  of  unknown  time ; 
Shone  upon  a  river  flowing, 
O'er  whose  banks  the  breezes  blowing 
Fanned  a  thousand  flowers  glowing 
,    Bright  with  hues  of  every  clime. 

And  the  people,  drawing  nearer, 
Saw  the  river  flowing  clearer 
Than  the  wondrous  crystal  mirror 

Of  their  foes  from  o'er  the  sea ; 
And  they  gazed  with  ravished  pleasure 
On  the  scene  where  nature's  treasure 
Had  been  heaped  in  boundless  measure 

For  the  seeker  that  might  be. 

Down  beside  the  flowing  river 
Flung  the  chief  his  bow  and  quiver, 
Raised  his  eyes  unto  the  Giver 

Of  all  mercies,  the  Most  Blest; 


ALABAMA,  93 

And  that  gaze  of  mute  adoring 
Seemed  his  very  soul  out-pouring, 
As  his  voice  rang  forth,  up-soaring, 
"  Alabama  !  here  we  rest !" 

And  as  roll  the  ocean-surges, 
When  the  tempest-demon  urges 
And  in  sullen  wrath  submerges 

Rock  and  sand  in  flying  foam, 
So  that  cry  of  exultation 
From  that  worn  and  fainting  nation 
Burst  in  joyous  acclamation, 
"  Alabama  !  we  are  home  ! " 

So  'twas  named,  that  realm  of  splendor 
It  had  pleased  the  great  Defender 
To  these  darkened  souls  to  render, 

For  a  home  awhile  their  own. 
And  tho'  soon  the  red-man  faded, 
Still  the  forest  ever-gladed, 
And  the  river  cool  and  shaded, 

By  the  red-man's  name  are  known. 


94  THE    FAIRY  S    SECRETS. 


THE    FAIRY'S  SECRETS. 


Where  the  boughs  of  the  laurel  bend  mournfully 

low, 

And  so  cool  and  delicious  the  air, 
Is  a  spot  far  the  fairest  of  all  that  I  know, 
And  full  often  I  thither  repair. 

There  the  stream  ripples  by 
With  a  murmur  and  sigh, 
And  a  sprite  in  its  bosom  doth  dwell; 
And  I  oft  used  to  think 
As  I  lay  on  its  brink 
Of  the  secrets  that  fairy  might  tell. 

\ 
Of  the  men  who  had  come  and  the  men  who 

had  gone 

Since  the  light  of  its  being  first  smiled, 
And  of  those  who  had  lingered  its  fair  bank  upon, 
And  the  deeds  of  the  forest's  dark  child. 
And  I  longed  to  be  told 
Why  the  fairies  of  old 
Had  departed  from  cottage  and  hall; 
And  at  last,  in  a  dream, 
Came  a  voice  from  the  stream, 
And  it  answered  my  questionings  all. 


THE    SIREN    OF    SONG.  95 

And  now  oft  to  that  spot  of  enchantment  I  go, 

Where,  secure  from  the  sun's  searching  beam, 
I  lie  down  where  the  laurel  bends  mournfully  low, 
And  I  talk  with  the  sprite  of  the  stream. 
.And  the  tales  that  she  tells 
Are  but  magical  spells 
Round  my  spirit  to  wreath  and  entwine, 
And  their  wonderful  lore 
Shall  be  told  never  more 
For  'tis  only  the  fairy's  and  mine. 


THE  SIREN  OF  SONG. 


A  moment  she  stood  in  her  loveliness  there, 

The  halo  of  purity  o'er  her, 
Like  a  rad:ant  vision,  so  winningly  fair 
With  the  glow  of  the  light  on  her  glorious  hair, 
One  couldn't  but  love  and  adore  her. 
Then,  silvery  clear, 
Fell  her  voice  on  the  ear, 

And  it  seemed  that  the  music  of  heaven  was  near. 
And  breathless  and  deep  the  enchantment,  and 
strong 


96  THE    SIREN    OF    SONG. 

The  passion  of  ecstacy  burning 
In  the  hearts  and  the  souls  of  the  listening  throng, 
As  they  hung  on  the  strain  of  the  siren  of  song 
In  wild  and  delirious  yearning; 
As  it  rose  and  fell 
With  its  magical  swell 
Like  the  echoing  chimes  of  a  spirit-rung  bell. 

And  singing,  she  knew  every  heart  that  was  there 

Was  hers  in  that  moment  of  madness, 
Yet  her  face  was  as  calm  and  as  peacefully  fair, 
And  her  eyes  were  upturned  as  in  passionate 

prayer 

And  dark  with  a  shadow  of  sadness. 
And  once,  and  again, 
Did  that  glorious  strain 
Thrill  the  listening  spirit  with  rapturous  pain. 

A  moment — 'twas  o'er — and  a  tremulous  sigh 
Welled  deep  as  from  depths  of  the  ocean, 
Ere  the  thunderous  cheer  and  ecstatical  cry 
Like  the  roar  of  a  tempest  rang  wildly  and  high— 
The  burst  of  the  heart's  pent  emotion. 
And  bright  mid  the  snows 
Of  her  cheeks'  soft  repose, 

As  she  heard,  bloomed  the  radiant  flush  of  the 
rose. 


GETHSEMANE.  97 


GETHSEMANE. 


When  He  prayed  in  that  beautiful  garden 

Where  the  orange  blooms  scented  the  air, 
That  tho'  suffering  still  he  might  pardon, 

Did  its  loveliness  seem  to  him  fair? 
Did  he  know  that  the  streamlets  were  flowing 

'Neath  the  moonlight  in  silvery  dyes  ? 
That  the  stars,  in  the  heavens  were  glowing 

Like  the  angels'  sweet  pitying  eyes  ? 

From  the  murmuring  cataract's  dashing 

Rose  the  white-pinioned,  phantom-like  spray; 
And  the  shimmering  fountains  were  splashing 

In  low,  tremulous  music  and  play; 
And  the  cooling  night-zephyrs  were  sighing 

Thro'  the  leaves  of  the  olive  and  palm — 
Did  they  bring,  thus  so  silently  flying, 

To  His  suffering  spirit  a  balm  ? 

But  O^how  can  man  murmur  and  languish 
At  the  ills  that  his  short  days  afford, 

When  he  knows  of  the  terrible  anguish 

And  the  crimson-stained  brow  of  his  Lord? 


98  UNKNOWN. 

Of  that  spirit,  so  humble  and  lowly, 

Seeking  not  the  dread  torture  to  shun, 

Only  praying  the  High  and  the  Holy 

That  His  all-ruling  will  might  be  done. 


UNKNOWN. 


Beside  the  trunk  of  yonder  pine 
That  rears  its  mighty  bulk  on  high, 
And  thro'  whose  waving  branches  shine 
Blue  glimpses  of  unclouded  sky, 
Unmarked,  save  by  a  cross  of  stone 
With  mosses  gray  and  strange  o'er-grown, 
I  see  the  grave  of  the  unknown. 

Unknown  ! — for  who,  of  all  whose  eyes 

The  lonely  sepulchre  have  seen, 

Can  tell  the  tale  of  him  who  lies 

Beneath  this  sloping  mound  of  green  ? 

Can  tell  his  race,  his  tongue,  his  name, 

If  he  were  ever  known  to  fame, 

Or  whence,  or  why,  or  how  he  came?  • 


AFTER    THE    BATTLE. 

And  who,  when  low  in  death  he  lay, 
Who  watched  or  prayed  beside  his  bier? 
Then  bore  away  the  lifeless  clay 
And  reverently  laid  it  here? 
The  earth  upon  his  bosom  pressed, 
And  raised  this  stone  above  his  breast 
To  mark  his  lonely  place  of  rest? 

I  ask  —  but  from  the  tangled  wild 

Of  wood  and  cliff  comes  no  reply ; 

The  rocky  pinnacles  uppiled 

Seem  but  to  nod  their  heads  and  sigh. 

Gray  rocks,  ye  know  but  cannot  tell 

Who  lieth  here  and  why  he  fell ; 

But  guard  his  rest  —  and  guard  it  well. 


AFTER  THE  BATTLE. 


99 


"My  darling,  my  darling,  the  red,  gory  tide 
Of  life-blood  is  flowing  in  streams  from  my  side; 
The  death-dew  is  standing  in  drops  on  my  brow  — 
My  darling,  my  darling,  I'm  leaving  thee  now. 


IOO  AFTER    THE    BATTLE. 

"I  think  of  thee,  dear  one,  as  here  mid  the  slain 
I  lie  with  this  throbbing,  this  torturing  pain ; 
I  think  of  the  days  ere  the  war-trump  was  blown 
I  think  of  the  joys  that  forever  have  flown. 

"  Forever  !  —  for  long  ere  the  coming  of  dawn 
My  soul  to  the  distant  beyond  will  have  gone ; 
The  beams  of  the  morning,  when  darkness  hath  fled, 
Will  fall  on  the  cold,  pallid  face  of  the  dead. 

"O,  darling  !  my  darling  !  'tis  hard  thus  to  die  — 
No  watcher,  no  kinsman,  no  comforter  nigh  ! 
Uncared  for,  unsheltered,  unseen  and  unknown  — 
O,  God  !  it  is  fearful  to  die  thus  alone  ! 

"If  thou  wert  beside  me  thy  face  would  illume 
With  radiant  beauty  the  darkness  and  gloom ; 
Thy  presence  would  cheer  me,  thy  spirit  would  guide 
My  own  in  its  flight  o'er  death's  shadowy  tide. 

"But  though  art  afar  beneath  happier  skies, 
And  never  again  may  I  gaze  in  thine  eyes; 
And  thou  dost  not  know  how  in  battle  I  fell, 
Nor  hear  the  last  whisper  that  bids  thee — farewell." 

Sinks  fainter  and  fainter  the  dying  one's  tone, 
Now  ends  in  a  gasping  and  quivering  moan ; 
And  thus  in  the  dread  and  the  darkness  of  night 
The  soul  of  the  soldier  hath  taken  its  flight. 


A  LEGEND  OF  SANTA  ROSA.         IOI 

A  LEGEND  OF  SANTA  ROSA. 
s 

Under  the  rays  of  the  soaring  moon, 

And  on  mid  the  night-wind's  moaning  croon, 

Over  the  waves  of  the  dew-gemmed  grass, 

Phantom-like  riders,  galloping,  pass. 

Stern  are  their  brows  and  shrouded  in  gloom, 

Dark  'neath  the  shadow  of  waving  plume ; 

And  pale  the  lips  of  the  captive  twain  — 

Riding  with  clanking  fetter  ancj.  chain. 

Halt  they  now  by  the  arroyo  there; 

Sharp  the  command  that  cleaveth  the  air : 

A  crash  —  and  a  flame  lighting  the  sky, 

A  gasping  moan  and  a  piercing  cry; 

A  surging  throng  that  fades  into  night, 

Guiltily  speeding  in  terrified  flight; 

Two  silent  forms  in  the  moon-light's  flood, 

And  a  deep,  dark  stain  that  seems  like  blood  ! 

And  the  days  and  months  have  glided  o'er 
With  their  varied  calm  and  stormy  roar; 
And  the  dust  of  time  hath  hid  the  stain 
And  the  dead  beneath  the  sodded  plain. 


102         A  LEGEND  OF  SANTA  ROSA. 

The  graves  are  decked  with  a  vernal  crown, 
And  closing  round  is  a  stirring  town ; 
The  fairest  flow'rs  of  a  garden  bloom 
Where  sleep  the  dead  in  their  unknown  tomb. 

And  oft  hath  a  maiden  lingered  there, 
By  a  dark-green  rose-tree,  quaint  and  rare, 
That  her  own  white  hands  with  fond  delight 
Had  planted  there,  that  its  bloom  so  white 
Might  bring  to  her  mind  the  loving  thought 
Of  her  childhood's   home,  from    whence  'twas 

brought 

To  gladden  her  here,  and  yet  no  flower 
Hath  gleamed  mid  its  dark  leaves'  verdant  bower. 

There  cometh  at  last  a  weird,  wild  night ; 
The  earth  is  wrapped  in  a  ghostly  light ; 
And  o'er  the  waves  of  the  dewy  grass 
Doth  a  train  of  spectral  shadows  pass ; 
And  lo  !  at  the  hour  —  'tis  midnight  gloom — 
The  flow'rless  green  hath  burst  into  bloom ; 
And  the  maiden  shrieks  with  nameless  dread, 
For  the  snowy  rose  hath  bloomed  —  blood-red  ! 

The  blossoms  fade  in  the  morning  air, 
And  again  the  rose-tree  standeth  bare. 
The  days  and  the  months  roll  swiftly  on, 


DYING.  103 

The  years  have  come  and  the  years  have  gone; 
And  on  the  wings  of  each  whirling  flight 
Cometh  the  hour  of  that  wondrous  sight; 
When  bursts  —  at  the  time  of  midnight  gloom— 
The  snowy  rose  into  crimson  bloom  ! 


DYING. 


Darkness  falling, 
Softly  palling, 

Shrouds  the  earth  in  robes  of  gloom  ; 
And  I  hear  the  angels  calling, 

Calling  from  beyond  the  tomb. 

Life  is  fleeing, 
The  All-seeing 
Willeth  not  that  it  remain.; 
He,  the  One  who  £ave  me  being, 
Claimeth  now  His  own  again. 

O,  my  spirit ! 
Dost  thou  fear  it  — 
The  unknown  life  coming  on  ? 
Tremble  not !  They  come  to  cheer  it  — 
Those  thou  lovest  who  are  gone. 


104  DYING. 

Loved  ones,  tender, 
Bright  with  splendor 

Of  that  shining  realm  above, 
Bearing  sprays  of  flowers  slender 

Gaze  on  me  with  eyes  of  love. 

Moonlight  beaming, 
Softly  streaming, 
Down  upon  me  as  I  die, 
Seems  a  pathway  golden  gleaming 
Leading  to  the  home  on  high. 

Waters  flowing, 
Zephyrs  blowing, 
Seem  to  sadly  bid  farewell, 
And  I  feel  my  spirit  going 

Whither  He  alone  can  tell. 

Spirit,  riven, 
Torn  and  driven 

From  the  earth,  where  leads  thy  way? 
I  know  not  but  God  in  heaven, 
God  the  Father,  is  my  stay  ! 


THE    GRAPE-GATHERERS.  105 


THE    GRAPE-GATHERERS. 


The  vines  of  the  vineyards  are  laden 

With  gleaming  and  glorious  spoil, 
And  many  a  youth  and  a  maiden 

Are  making  a  frolic  of  toil ; 
And  music  and  mirth  ever  blending 

In  melody  sweetest  entwine  — 
But  two  silent  figures  are  bending 

Together  beside  a  dark  vine. 

The  bright  sun  of  autumn  is  glowing 

On  Mandeville's  tresses  of  brown, 
And  Laura's,  all  golden-hued,  flowing, 

Her  neck  and  her  shoulders  adown ; 
And  stilled  are  the  hands  that  were  flying 

So  lately  in  emulous  glee, 
Forgotten  the  basket  is  lying, 

The  vine  from  its  burden  not  free. 

Their  comrades  have  moved,  on  before  them, 
Yet  watch  them  with  mischievous  eyes, 

And  e'en  the  bright  birds  skimming  o'er  them 
Look  down  as  in  smiling  surprise. 


106  THE    LOST   GRAVE. 

The  dying  breeze  faints  in  revival  - 

But  what  now  doth  Mandeville  say, 

That  Laura's  fair  cheek  should  outrival 
The  blush  of  the  Flaming  Tokay  ? 


THE  LOST  GRAVE. 


O,  sad  it  is  to  wander  where 
The  mournful  willows  wave 

O'er  graves  where  rest  the  young  and  fair, 
The  noble  and  the  brave, 

But  sadder  still  when  seeking  there 
A  brother's  nameless  grave. 

O,  birds,  so  joyous  mid  the  shade 
Where  your  short  lives  begun, 

And  flowers  that  bloom  within  the  glade 
And  glory  of  the  sun, 

O3  can  ye  tell  where  he  is  laid, 
My  lost,  my  longed  for,  one  ? 

I  know  that  somewhere  'neath  the  sod 
The  poor,  cold  ashes  lie  ; 


THE    LOST    GRAVE.  1 07 

Perhaps  my  wand'ring  feet  have  trod 

Their  gloomy  mansion  by ; 
And  still  none  knew  save  only  God 

The  spot  I  sought  was  nigh. 

Ah,  many  mounds  around  are  seen 
Unmarked  by  cross  or  stone, 

And  some  are  robed  in  living  green, 
And  some  are  all  o'ergrown 

With  blooming  vines  of  snowy  sheen  — 

But  all  to  me  unknown  ! 

• 

But  O,  tho'  I  should  never  know 

Where  his  dead  ashes  lie, 
And  wand'ring  vainly  to  and  fro, 

Unknowing  pass  them  by, 
It  is  His  will  it  should  be  so, 

Who  knoweth  more  than  I. 

Thy  stars  that  burn  in  midnight's  pall 
Shall  guard  his  lonely  sleep, 

As  angel-eyes  that  over  all 

Their  watch  and  ward  do  keep ; 

And  on  his  grave,  at  evening,  fall 
The  dews,  the  tears,  they  weep. 


io8  THE  MOTHER'S  CROSS. 


THE   MOTHER'S   CROSS. 


In  the*  twilight  gray  and  cheerless 

Knelt  a  mother  in  despair ; 
Yet  her  eyes  were  dry  and  tearless, 

And  her  lips  moved  not  in  prayer. 
Tho'  her  darling  lay  before  her, 

drilling  'neath  death's  icy  dart, 
Waves  of  maddened  passion  tore  her 

Proud  yet  warm  and  loving  heart. 
" Darling,"  cried  she,  "must  I  lose  thee, 

Round  whose  heart  my  heart-strings  twine? 
Never  !  never  !  death  may  choose  thee — 

Never  take  thee  !  —  thou  art  mine  ! " 

At  the  word  in  royal  splendor, 

And  with  mien  of  God-like  grace, 
Stood  Messiah,  man's  Defender, 

Lord  and  Savior  in  the  place. 
Fair  as  in  the  olden  story 

Were  His  holy  features  now, 
But  a  golden  crown  of  glory 

Shone  above  his  noble  brow. 


CUSTER'S  DEAD.  109 

Swift  the  mother's  anguish  staying 

With  a  smile  of  love  divine, 
Jesus  raised  the  infant,  saying, 
"I  will  take  him,  he  is  mine." 

In  the  starlight  brightly  gleaming 

Knelt  the  mother  in  her  prayer ; 
Tears  of  chastened  sorrow  streaming 

Down  her  features  worn  with  care, 
As  she  murmured,  "He  has  spoken; 

Who  am  I  that  would  rebel  ? 
And"  —  her  voice  grew  low  and  broken  — 

"Sweet,  my  darling  one,  farewell !  " 
Then  in  accents  meek  and  lowly, 

But  with  mien  almost  divine, 
"Jesus,"  said  she,  "Just  and  Holy, 

Thou  canst  take  him,  he  is  Thine  ! " 


CUSTER'S   DEAD. 


Silver  the  river,  lying 

A  shining  ribbon  of  glass, 

Tender  the  zephyrs,  sighing 


OUSTER'S  DEAD. 

In  melody  as  they  pass; 

But  dark  the  crimson  dyeing 
Of  the  torn  and  trodden  grass. 

Bold  are  the  silent  faces 
So  mutely  turned  to  the  sky. 
Grand  is  the  look  death  places 
In  the  cold  and  glaring  eye. 

Graced  with  the  nameless  graces 
Of  a  hero's  fall  they  lie. 

There  with  the  stained  grass  twining 
Its  green  o'er  his  lifeless  eyes, 
There  with  the  sunlight  shining 
On  his  long  locks'  golden  dyes, 

Noble  in  death  reclining, 
The  pride  of  the  army  lies. 

Lies  with  his  heroes  round  him, 
Warriors  loyal  and  trie'd; 
Living,  their  hearts  had  bound  him 
With  the  soldier's  loving  pride ;     • 

Dying,  the  wreath  that  crowned  him 
Was  twined  for  their  brows  beside. 

Where  are  the  steeds  who  bore  them 
To  strife  and  their  death  that  day  ? 
Their  banner  streaming  o'er  them, 


ROSABEL.  HI 

Their  spirits  hot  for  the  fray; 

And  that  wild  heart  before  them, 
Leading  in  glory  the  way. 

Stark  and  stiffened  and  gory, 
With  lifeless  nostril  and  eye, 
Sharing  their  riders'  glory 
In  fallen  beauty  they  lie : 

Dumb  heroes  of  a  story 
Whose  memory  ne'er  shall  die. 

Sadly  the  low  wind  sigheth 
O'er  fallen  valor  and  worth; 
All  o'er  the  land  there  flyeth 
A  wail,  a  knell  to  our  mirth : 

Stern  is  the  voice  that  cryeth 
Aloud  from  the  crimsoned  earth  ! 


ROSABEL. 


Amid  the  bower's  vernal  sheen, 
B  eside  the  mystic  fairy-well, 

Where  bends  the  laurel's  glossy  green, 
'Twas  there  I  found  her —  Rosabel. 


112  ROSABEL. 

The  fair,  sweet  face  I  did  not  know, 
Yet  while  her  blushes  rose  and  fell 

Beneath  my  gaze  I  murmured  low 
In  absent  accents,  "Rosabel." 

A  moment  —  and  I  strolled  away, 
And  what  it  was  I  cannot  tell 

That  led  me  thence  another  day, 

And  brought  to  meet  me  —  Rosabel. 

And  every  Summer  day  would  bring 
A  longing  that  I  could  not  quell 

To  hasten  to  the  mystic  spring, 
And  meet  the  lovely  Rosabel. 

But  there  —  ah,  me  !  —  we  meet  no  more, 
And  saddest  recollections  dwell 

About  the  spot  for  all  is  o'er  — 

Alas  !  —  for  thee,  poor  Rosabel ! 

And  oft  my  wand'ring  foot-steps  stray 
Adown  yon  fair  and  blooming  dell 

To  where  the  weeping-willows  sway 
Above  the  tomb  of  Rosabel. 


SLUMBER.  113 


SLUMBER. 


Softly,  my  darling, 
Sink  to  thy  rest ; 
Long  hath  the  starling 
Gone  to  her  nest. 

Over 

The  clover 

The  night-shadows  creep, 
Softly,  my  darling, 
Sink  to  thy  sleep. 

Tenderly,  fairest, 

Close  thy  blue  eyes  ; 
Bright  with  the  rarest 
Azurine  dyes. 

Glowing, 
O'er-flowing, 

With  dream-visioned  lore  - 
Tenderly,  fairest, 
Curtain  them  o'er. 

Calmly,  my  darling, 
Sink  to  thy  rest ; 


IT4  A    LAMENTATION. 

Lie  like  the  starling 
Safe  on  God's  breast. 

Dreaming, 
His  beaming 
And  loving  eyes  keep 
Watch  o'er  thee,  darling, 
Over  thy  sleep. 


A  LAMENTATION. 


Addressed  to  Messrs.  FRANKLIN  JUDSON  and  T.  J.  BUTTS, 
upon  the  marriage  of  the  latter. 

'Tis  ended,  the  contest  is  ended  ! 

The  struggle  all  hopeless  is  o'er ; 
At  last  he  has  yielded  and  wended 

His  way  to  the  "ever-green  shore." 
Has  gone  to  that  land  where,  before  him, 

Another,  long  faded  from  sight, 
,     Unseeing  the  spell  weaving  o'er  him 

Was  lost  in  connubial  night. 

He  fell,  and  beside  me  in  sorrow 

This  friend  knelt  and  mourned  o'er  his 
tomb, 


ORGETRIX.  115 

Nor  dreamed  that  the  fateful  to-morrow 

Would  bring  to  himself  the  same  doom ; 

And  O,  the  vain  wisdom  of  mortals  ! 
Their  vision  how  blinded  and  dim  ! 

Already  were  Destiny's  portals 

Wide  open  and  yawning  for  him. 

I  muse  not  in  anger  nor  scorning 

O'er  this  —  to  myself —  faithless  twain, 

But  only  in  tenderest  mourning, 

And  hope  I  shall  meet  them  again. 

'Tis  true  they  have  left  me  behind  them, 
And  never  returning  is  known, 

And  yet  —  it  may  be  —  I  shall  find  them 
Some  day  in  the  land  where  they've  flown* 


ORGETORIX. 

Orgetorix  mortuus  est.       VI  dt  Caesar  de  Bello  Gallico. 

No  !  look  not  for  a  craven's  prayer  ! 

Talk  not  of  milder  doom  ! 
The  scorn  within  my  heart  could  dare 

A  death  of  sterner  gloom. 
And  in  the  past  I  ne'er  did  bow 

To  gods  or  men,  and  will  not  now ! 


Il6  ORGETORIX. 

I  own  I  strove  against  our  land, 
The  land  of  freedom's  birth  ! 

I  would  have  crushed  with  iron  hand 
That  freedom  low  to  earth  ! 

And  on  her  fallen  altar-stone 

Have  reared  aloft  my  regal  throne. 

I  murmur  not  that  I  must  die, 
Grieve  not  o'er  ventures  lost ; 

My  scheme  was  stern  and  wild,  and  I 
Had  counted  well  the  cost. 

Yet,  chained  and  guarded  here  this  hour, 
I  scorn  your  vengeance  and  your  power ! 

Ye  tell  me  I  am  doomed  to  bear 
The  felon's  death  of  flame  ; 

But  by  my  father's  shade  I  swear 
Mine  shall  not  be  that  shame  ! 

Behold  this  faithful  steel !  —  the  key 

To  burst  my  chains  and  set  me  free  ! 

Ah,  judges,  now  ye  know  the  whole  — 
Stand  back,  O,  gallant  slave  ! 

I  would  not  stain  my  parting  soul 
With  blood  of  one  so  brave ; 

But  I  will  free  me  as  I  stand, 

And  woe  to  him  who  stays  my  hand. 


MY    DREAM.  117 

One  warning  word,  and  then  —  farewell ! 

Helvetia,  be  it  thine  : 
My  boding  spirit  can  foretell 

The  vengeance  to  be  mine  ; 
When  maid  and  matron,  serf  and  lord, 

Shall  fall  beneath  the  Roman  sword  ! 


MY    DREAM. 


I  dreamed  of  one  with  starry  eyes 

And  flowing  dark-brown  hair; 
With  cheeks  of  blending  carmine  dyes 

And  snowy  lustre  rare  ; 
Of  one,  the  music  of  whose  tones 

Hath  power  to  lift  above 
My  soul  unto  those  heav'nly  zones 

Of  angel  peace  and  love. 

And  while  I  dreamed  my  spirit  seemed, 
Entranced  to  leave  the  clay; 

And  where  Aurora's  glory  beamed 
Pursued  its  aerial  way. 


Il8  THE    BROTHERS. 

And  on  and  on,  but  not  alone, 

Her  spirit  flew  before, 
I  held  her  hand  within  my  own, 

Nor  wished,  nor  willed  for  more. 

And  on  we  flew  thro'  gorgeous  skies, 

And  spoke  no  word  the  while; 
Entranced  beneath  her  burning  eyes, 

I  dreamed  but  of  her  smile ; 
And  longing  prayed  that  in  this  spell 

Of  strange  and  magic  lore 
My  yearning  soul  in  bliss  might  dwell 

Thus  chained  for  ever  more. 


THE    BROTHERS. 


Go,  brother,  go ;  arise  and  fly  ! 

The  foes  come  swiftly  on. 
I  cannot  bear  to  see  thee  die  — 

O,  brother  mine,  be  gone  ! 

Fear  not  to  leave  me  here  alone, 
The  foes  hurt  not  the  dead ; 

They'll  never  hear  my  dying  moan 
My  spirit  will  have  fled. 


THE    BROTHERS. 

O,  brother,  haste  !  if  thou  dost  fall, 

Then  perishes  the  name 
Which  e'er  hath  been  in  camp  and  hall 

The  synonym  of  fame. 

But  kiss  me  once  upon  my  brow  — 

A  brother's  kiss  of  love  ! 
Perchance  our  mother  sees  us  now 

From  her  fair  home  above. 

And  take  from  'neath  my  silken  vest 

The  lock  of  golden  hair ; 
It  mates  the  tress  upon  my  crest  — 

You  know  who  placed  it  there. 

Take  her  the  curl  —  the  shining  tress 
I'll  keep  till  my  last  breath  — 

And  tell  her  that  I  love  and  bless 
Her  memory  in  death. 

Nay,  weep  not,  brother,  do  not  mourn, 
For  why  should  we  repine  ? 

A  soldier's  laurels  I  have  borne, 
A  soldier's  death  is  mine. 

But  see  !  beside  yon  dashing  stream 
The  banners  floating  high  ! 

The  foemen's  lances  flash  and  gleam — • 
O,  hasten,  brother,  fly  ! 


120  REMORSE. 

O,  hasten,  hasten  !  die  not  here  ! 

Live  but  my  tale  to  tell ! 
Live  but  my  darling's  heart  to  cheer  — 

Go,  go  !  Farewell,  farewell ! 

He's  gone,  thank  God  !    His  gleaming  crest 

O'er-tops  the  rugged  hill; 
His  head  is  low  upon  his  breast: 

He's  yearning  for  me  still. 

Now  fainter  comes  my  heavy  breath, 
Cold  drops  bedew  my  brow; 

O,  darling,  darling  !  this  is  death  ! 
Farewell  forever  now  ! 


REMORSE. 


O,  heaven  !  will  death  never  sever 

The  bonds  of  a  life  that  I  hate  ? 
O,  Father  above,  wilt  Thou  never 

Relieve  me  of  this  bitter  fate  ? 
Never  lessen  the  horrible  burning 

Consuming  my  heart  to  the  core  ? 
And  O,  is  there  not  a  returning  ?  — 

Will  innocence  own  me  no  more  ? 


REMORSE.  121 

O,  Christ !  Thou  art  ever  painted 

An  image  of  kindness  and  love  ; 
Men  point  to  Thy  countenance  sainted 

And  tell  of  the  mercy  above. 
Then  why  are  all  others  forgiven 

And  freed  from  their  torture  and  pain, 
While  I  ever  onward  am  driven 

Accursed  with  the  stigma  of  Cain  ? 

Ever  on  with  the  blood  of  a  brother 

On  my  hand  —  a  terrible  stain  ! 
Ever  on  with  the  curse  of  a  mother 

Burning  deep  into  heart  and  brain ; 
And  a  father's  eyes  stony  and  glaring 

Ever  fill  me  with  terrible  fear, 
And  the  shriek  of  a  sister  despairing 

Ever  rings  like  a  knell  in  my  ear  ! 

And  onward  I  wander,  forever  — 

Like  one  in  a  desert  athirst  — 
Calling  death.  O,  God  !  will  he  never 

Come  to  relieve  the  accursed  ? 
Is  there  in  man's  knowledge  no  potion 

Can  give  the  oblivion  I  crave  ? 
Ah,  no  !  and  from  ocean  to  ocean 

Is  no  spot  for  a  fratricide's  grave  ! 


122  THE    OCEAN-QUEEN. 


THE  OCEAN -QUEEN. 


Far,  far  the  ocean-depths  below, 
Where  snowy  pearls  and  rubies  glow, 
And  slender  corals  to  and  fro 

Move  in  unceasing  motion, 
She  sits  upon  a  throne  of  gold, 
Like  some  majestic  queen  of  old, 
And  crowned  with  gems  of  price  untold, 

The  fairy  queen  of  ocean. 

Within  her  slender,  snowy  hand 

She  holds  a  gemmed  and  jewelled  wand — 

The  royal  emblem  of  command 

From  ages  old  in  story— 
And  nymphs  of  loveliness  divine, 
With  all  the  shapes  that  haunt  the  brine, 
All,  all  obey  that  royal  sign, 

And  bow  before  her  glory. 

The  sun  ne'er  gilds  her  palace-wails, 
His  rays  ne'er  gleam  within  her  halls, 
And  on  the  pave  no  shadow  falls 

To  dim  the  jewels'  gleaming; 


THE    OCEAN -QUEEN.  123 

But  from  the  mimic  caves  and  cells, 
And  from  the  gleaming  coral-bells, 
A  light  conjured  by  magic  spells 

In  golden  rays  is  streaming. 

No  lovely  meadows  sloping  green, 
No  bending  flow'rs  of  modest  mien, 
Without  the  palace-walls  are  seen 

In  beauty  soft  and  tender ; 
In  coral  grove,  in  coral  glade, 
Mid  gleaming  light  or  gloomy  shade, 
Are  flow'rs  that  never,  never,  fade, 

But  bloom  in  endless  splendor. 

No  bird  of  earth  or  heaven  sings, 

No  earth-born  minstrel  sweeps  the  strings, 

Nor  earthly  music  ever  rings 

Within  these  ocean-bowers. 
But  from  the  sea's  unfathomed  wells, 
And  from  the  rainbow  tinted  shells, 
A  strain  of  wondrous  beauty  swells 

Thro'  all  the  endless  hours. 

The  queen  —  a  wild  tradition  saith 
She  tastes  not  food,  she  breathes  not  breath, 
And  ne'er  comes  age,  nor  pain,  nor  death, 
Within  her  palace-portal ; 


124  GOOD    NIGHT. 

She  sits  upon  her  golden  throne, 
As  she  hath  sat  for  time  unknown, 
While  years  fly  on  as  years  have  flown, 
Undying  and  immortal. 


GOOD    NIGHT. 


Good  night,  my  love,  good  night,  good  night ! 
The  moon  is  soaring  high  and  bright, 
And  wraps  the  earth  in  softest  light  — 
Good  night,  good  night,  my  love,  good  night ! 

Good  night,  and  happy,  happy  dreams ; 
More  silv'ry  than  .the  moonlight  beams, 
And  softer  than  the  play  of  streams,— 
Good  night,  good  night,  and  happy  dreams. 

Good  night,  good-night,  O  dream  of  me  ! 
For  night  and  day  I  dream  of  thee ; 
For  day  and  night  one  form  I  see  — 
'Tis  only  thine  !  —  O,  dream  of  me. 

Good  night,  my  own,  good  night,  good  night ! 
Thy  image  fadeth  now  from  sight ; 


FISHING.  125 

And  on  the  earth  seems  fall'n  a  blight, — 
My  own,  my  own,  good  night,  good  night ! 


FISHING. 


Tis  cosy  here,  and  really  nice, 

The  air  with  sweet  perfume  is  scented ; 

And  if  1  can  those  fish  entice 

To  take  my  bait,  I'll  be  contented. 

How  clear  the  water  is  !  —  I  see 
Far  downward,  almost  to  the  bottom ; 
And  lots  of  fish,  but  woe  is  me  !  — 
Because,  because  I  haven't  got  'em. 

i 
But  never  mind ;  here  comes  a  chap, 

Red,  green,  and  slightly  specked  with  yellow ; 
He  sees  the  bait,  and  now  then  —  snap  ! 
Hurrah  !  —  I've  got  you,  my  fine  fellow  ! 

Why  !  how? — O,  hang  it !  this  is  fine  ! 
That  thief  my  bait  and  hook  has  gotten  ; 
And  there  he  goes  !  —  who'd  think  that  line 
Could  ever  be  so  awful  rotten  ? 


126  FISHING. 

Holloa  !  —  there's  some  one  over  there  — 
I  hear  him  ;  what's 'he  doing?  —  laughing? 
By  jove  !  at  me?  —  he'd  best  take  care  ! 
I'm  in  no  humor  to  stand  chaffing. 

Ah,  now  I  see  a  boyish  head, 
Complexion  browner  than  a  digger's ; 
A  little  more  and  I'd  have  said 
The  "phiz"  was  blacker  than  a  "  nigger's." 

He  saw  that  broken  line  I  fear, 

His  very  limbs  with  laughter  wriggle. 

O,  if  I  had  him  by  the  ear 

How  soon  I'd  stop  his  senseless  giggle  ! 

Holloa  !  he's  come  down  to  the  shore ; 
And  "  Mister,"  says  he,  "  say,  you'd  oughter 
Jest  try  yer  fishin'  line  before 
Ye^drop  the  hook  down  in  the  water  ! " 

And  now  he  laughs  and  runs  away ; 
Just  see  the  little  rascal  waddle  ! 
Confound  his  "  cheek  ! "  yet  I  must  say 
There's  some  sound  sense  within  his  noddle. 

What  now  ?  a  boat  ?  O,  woe  on  woe  ! 
A  boat  with  splashing  oar  and  paddle  ! 
They'll  scare  the  fish — ah,  there  they  go !  — 
Well,  well,  I  think  that  I'll  "  skeedadle." 


A    FRAGMENT.  127 


A  FRAGMENT. 


Thro'  the  window-lattice  twining 
Rays  of  moonlight,  silver-shining, 
Fall  upon  the  maid  reclining 

'Neath  the  silken  pall. 
Matchless  figure,  fair  and  slender, 
Faultless  features,  sweet  and  tender, 
Bathing  all  in  shining  splendor, 

Faultless  features,  form  and  all. 

Face  the  fairest, 
.  Form  the  rarest 
Ever  seen  before, 
Rarest  form  and  fairest  features 
Ever  seen  'mong  living  creatures       i 

Since  her  snowy  pinions  bore 
From  this  earth  so  mean  and  lowly, 
Wicked,  sinful,  and  unholy, 

Venus,  queen  of  grace  and  love* 
To  the  brighter  realm  above ; 
To  the  heaven  high  and  holy, 

To  the  holy  place  above. 


128  CLAN-RONALD. 


CLAN  -  RONALD. 


The  prison  re-echoed  the  soldiery's  tread, 
And  clanking  and  clanging  the  iron  bars  fell, 
And  haughtily  bending  his  arrogant  head 
The  magistrate  entered  the  prisoner's  cell. 
A  moment  he  gazed  in  the  warrior's  face, 
Searching,  in  vain,  for  a  symptom  of  fear, 
Then  mockingly  bowing  with  courtier  grace 
He  said  with  a  baffled  yet  triumphant  sneer : 

"Clan-Ronald,  bold  traitor,  how  silent  and  grim  ! 
Why  find  I  thee  lost  in  thy  loneliness'  gloom  ? 
No  priest  by  thee  praying  for  mercy  for  him 
So  righteously  named  for  a  traitor's  dark  doom. 
Arouse  thee,  awake  !  for  the  moment  has  come, 
And  faintly  there  thrills  thro'  the  walls  of  thy  cell 
The  sound  of  the  deep  and  the  dead-rolling  drum, 
And  calls  to  the  death  thou  hast  merited  well. 

"Still  silent,  Clan-Ronald?     What  ails  thee?  dost 

hear, 

Or  hast  thou  not  courage  to  suffer  thy  fate  ? 
At  last  —  O,  my  triumph  !  —  I've  taught  thee  to 

fear  — 


WAITING.  129 

Blythe  knowledge  is  this  to  thine  enemy's  hate  ! 
Come,  coward,  arouse  thee!    I'll  lend  thee  my 

hand," 

And  mockingly  laughing  he  bent  o'er  the  bed ; 
Then  sprang  back  with  horror  amid  his  mailed 

band  — 
For  silent  and  peaceful  Clan-Ronald  lay  dead  ! 


WAITING. 


"  A  simple  village  tale 
Of  a  lost  seaman  and  a  crazed  girl." 

BULWER  ;    The  Rightful  Heir 


Shading  her  straining  eyes  with  her  hand 
She  sits  alone  on  the  pebbly  strand, 

Gazing  out  over  the  sea ; 
And  moans  aloud  again  and  again, 
And  says  in  a  tone  of  yearning  pain, 
"He  comes  not:  woe  is  me  !  " 

Sometimes  to  the  blue  and  vaulted  skies 
Rising  above  her  she  lifts  her  eyes, 

In  anguished  appeal  from  the  sea ; 


130  WAITING. 

And  wringing  her  hands  with  tears  and  moans 
She  murmurs  in  low,  heart-rending  tones, 
"He  comes  not:  woe  is  me  !" 

She  watches  each  ship  with  snowy  sail, 
As  driven  before  the  gentle  gale, 

They  come  sailing  over  the  sea; 
And  with  hopeful  fire  her  dark  eyes  beam, 
Yet  still  doth  she  wring  her  hands  and  scream, 
"He  comes  not:  woe  is  me  !" 

Above  her  head  in  his  circling  flight 
Doth  hover  the  sea-gull  purely  white, 
A  watcher  like  her  of  the  sea ; 
But  noting  him  not,  tears  fall  like  rain, 
Moaning  she  weeps  and  murmurs  again, 
"He  comes  not:  woe  is  me  !  " 

Up  over  the  sands  with  ceaseless  beat 
The  water  rushes  and  laves  her  feet, 

Caressed  by  the  waves  of  the  sea; 
She  knoweth  it  not,  but  thinks  alone 
Of  grief  and  repeats  her  wailing  moan, 
"He  comes  not:  woe  is  me  !" 

Sometimes  she  springs  from  her  rocky  seat, 
And  paces  the  strand  with  hasty  feet, 
Along  by  the  side  of  the  sea; 


DEATH-LIFE.  131 

Wringing  her  hands  and  tearing  her  hair 
She  cries  in  a  voice  of  mad  despair, 
"He  comes  not:  woe  is  me  !" 

And  thus  with  passions  and  pangs  that  yearn, 
In  hope  and  dread  she  waits  his  return  : 
The  boy  who  was  lost  on  the  sea; 
Sometimes  in  tenderest  woe  she  moans, 
And  sometimes  screams  in  agonized  tones, 
"He  comes  not;  woe  is  me  !" 


DEATH -LIFE. 


Tho'  thou  art  gone  it  ever  seems 

As  if  thou  still  wert  here ; 
For  oft  in  day  or  night  time  dreams 

I  feel  thy  presence  near. 
I  know  that  thou  art  by  my  side 

From  earliest  morning  dawn 
Until  the  grim  and  dark  night  tide,- 

And  art  thou  surely  gone? 

I  see  thee  in  my  nightly  dreams, 
So  sweet,  so  angel  fair; 


DEATH-LIFE. 

Thine  eye  with  love's  soft  glamour  beams, 

Thy  step  seems  light  as  air. 
But  if  I  try  to  clasp  thy  form, 

Or  kiss  thy  lips  so  pure, 
Thou  fad'st  like  snow  'neath  sunshine  warm, 

Too  lovely  to  endure. 

And  waking  oft  in  yearning  pain, 

I  call  in  vain  for  thee; 
And  sigh  for  sleep  and  dreams  again 

To  bring  thee  back  to  me. 
And  while  I  longing,  dreaming,  lie, 

The  night  hours  waste  away, 
And  fainting  stars  forsake  the  sky, 

Before  the  lord  of  day. 

But  O,  when  these,  my  earthly  eyes, 

Are  closed  in  that  last  sleep  — 
That  sleep  o'er  which  the  poet  sighs 

And  man  is  prone  to  weep — 
I  know  that  thou  wilt  bend  above 

The  couch  whereon  I  lie, 
And  teach  me  with  thy  kiss  of  love 

How  sweet  'tis  thus  to  die. 


BLACK    POINT    MUSINGS.  133 


BLACK -POINT  MUSINGS. 


I  am  dreaming,  Allie,  dreaming, 

While  the  billows  thunder  by, 
And  the  golden  sun  is  gleaming 

Low  adown  the  western  sky, 
Dreams  of  rapture  so  elysian 

Human  longing  ne'er  can  cloy, 
And  the  pinions  of  my  vision 

Waft  me  more  than  angel  joy. 

Here  upon  the  bare  rock  lying, 
Surges  raving  at  my  feet, 

Snowy  froth  of  foam  up-flying 
From  their  never-ending  beat, 

Dusky  mouths  of  sullen  iron 

Gleaming  dark  and  dread  above, 

Comes  a  voice  of  ocean  siren 

Breathing  strains  of  mystic  love. 

And  as  slowly,  slowly,  o'er  me 

Falls  the  dim  and  mystic  dream 

Riseth  from  the  waves  before  me 
One  as  fair  as  angels  seem ; 


134 


THE  MINSTREL'S  CURSE. 

And  I  feel  her  spell  enthralling 
Pressing  all  my  sense  upon, 

While  the  walls  of  earth  are  falling, 
Slowly  falling,  falling,  gone  ! 

Rolling  billows,  thunder-laden, 

Soon  have  burst  the  wondrous  spell. 
And  the  siren  seems  a  maiden 

Known  in  truest  friendship  well ; 
While  the  waves,  amid  the  seething 

Murmur  of  their  bosom's  moan, 
Sound  a  name  that,  softly  breathing, 

Wakes  an  echo  in  my  own. 


THE  MINSTREL'S  CURSE. 


From  the  German  of  Ludwig  Uhland. 


In  ages  old  and  ancient  shone  a  castle  great  and 

grand, 
A  shining  pile  of  splendor,  to  the  blue-girt  ocean 

strand, 
Enwreathed  with  fragrant  gardens  of  bewildering 

perfume, 


THE    MINSTRELS    CURSE.  135 

Wherein  the  fountains  leaped  and  played  in  rain- 
bow-tinted bloom. 

A  mighty  and  renowned  king  this  castle  claimed 

his  own, 
And  therein  reigned  in  gloom  and  dread  upon  a 

tyrant's  throne ; 
His  every  thought  was  terror  and  his  glances  black 

with  hate, 
His  every  word  was  torture  and  his  pen  the  sword 

°ffate'  Bancroft  Library 

There  came  once  to  this  castle's  gate  a  noble  min- 
strel pair, 

And  one  had  flowing  locks  of  gold  and  one  had 
hoary  hair ; 

The  ancient,  bearing  high  the  harp,  a  noble  steed 
bestrode, 

The  youth  pressed  on  with  joyous  step  beside  him 
as  he  rode. 

The  gray-beard  spoke  unto  the  youth  :  "  My  son, 
the  hour  is  nigh  ; 

Remember  all  the  solemn  strains  that  in  thy  pow- 
ers lie ; 

Let  melting  grief  and  rapture  blend  within  thy 
thrilling  tone, 

That  we,  please  heaven,  yet  may  move  the  mon- 
arch's heart  of  stone." 


136  THE  MINSTREL'S  CURSE. 

And  soon  within  the  castle  hall  the  minstrel-twain 

were  seen, 
Before  the  throne  whereon  reposed  the  monarch 

and  his  queen ; 
And  he,  Aurora-like,  in  robes  of  bloody  crimson 

gleams, 
And  she  with  brow  of  tender  light,  as  of  the  moon's 

soft  beams. 

The  old  man  twined  his  master-hand  the  shining 

chords  among, 
The    music    swelled,   and   ever  more   and  more 

divinely  rung ; 
And  soared  aloft  the  stripling's  voice  with  heavenly 

strength  and  fire, 
While   the   master  sang   amid  it  like  a  muffled 

spirit-choir. 

The  minstrels  sang  of  spring  and  love,  of  happy, 
golden  days, 

Of  valor  and  of  liberty,  of  holiness  and  praise. 

They  sang  of  all  and  every  joy  that  thrills  the  mor- 
tal breast, 

Of  all  that  lifts  the  human  heart,  the  lofty  and  the 
blest. 

The  hollow-hearted  courtier  throng  forgot  each 
scoff  and  jeer; 


THE  MINSTREL'S  CURSE.  137 

The  sternest  of  the   men-at-arms  raised  upward 

eyes  of  fear ; 
With  tears  of  rapture  and  of  grief  the  fair  queen's 

eyes  o'erflowed, 
As  from  her  breast  the  rosebud  on  the  minstrel  she 

bestowed. 

"My  people  thou  hast  tempted  ;  wilt  now  allure  my 
bride?" 

In  trembling  and  in  frenzied  wrath  the  raging 
monarch  cried. 

He  hurled  his  sword ;  it  flashing  pierced  the  strip- 
ling where  he  stood, 

When  started  forth,  not  floods  of  song,  but  crimson 
tides  of  blood. 

The  list'ning  throng  dispersed  in  fear  as  scattered 

by  the  storm, 
And  in  his  master's  arms  reposed  the  minstrel's 

lifeless  form, 
He  bound  the  mantle-shrouded  corse  upon  the 

charger  tall, 
And  led  the  steed  and  burden  dread  without  the 

castle  wall. 

And  there,  before  the  lofty  gate,  the  hoary  minstrel 
stayed ; 


138  THE  MINSTREL'S  CURSE. 

There  grasped  his  priceless  harp  —  the  pearl  of 

all  that  man  had  made  — 
And  crushed  it  there  with  frenzied  force  upon  the 

shining  stone, 
And  wildly  through  the  court  and  hall  rang  out 

his  awful  tone  : 

"Woe  !  woe  to  you,  ye  haughty  halls  !     May  never 

minstrel  strain, 
In  music  or  in  song,  resound  throughout  your  walls 

again  ! 
But  only  fearful  sighs  and  groans,  and  trembling 

tread  of  slaves, 
Until    destruction  whelms   you   all    beneath  her 

Venging  waves  ! 

"Woe  to  you,  gardens  blooming  'neath  May's  sun- 
shine soft  and  mild  ! 

For  here  I  show  the  face  disfigured  of  this  murdered 
child, 

That,  beholding,  ye  may  wither,  the  fountains  cease 
their  play, 

And  together  lie  in  ruin  till  resurrection's  day. 

"  Dark  assassin,  woe  to  thee  —  curse  to  minstrelsy 

and  song  ! 

In  vain  for  crimson  glory  shall  thy  wretched  spirit 
long. 


THE  MINSTREL'S  CURSE.  139 

Thy  name  shall  be  forgotten,  deep  plunged  in  the 

dark  unknown, 
And  lost  in  empty  nothing,  like  the  echo  of  a 

groan  ! " 

The  hoary  seer  hath  spoken  now,  the  fates  accept 

the  trust, 
And  walls  and  halls  are  lying  low,  in  ruin  and  in 

dust; 
But  one  majestic  column  stands,  emblem  of  glory 

past, 
And  this  may  bend  its  shattered  form  before  the 

midnight  blast. 

And  now,  where  once  a  garden  bloomed,  behold 

a  barren  land  ; 
For  never  tree  doth  cast  a  shade  nor  fountain 

pierce  the  sand.  v  - 

The   monarch's  name   is  glorified   in  no  heroic 

verse, 
Abhorred,  forgotten,  and  despised  —  and  this  the 

minstrel's  curse. 


140  PLAYING    CHESS. 


PLAYING   CHESS. 


We  sat  beneath  the  chandelier, 

Its  splendor  streaming  o'er  us, 
The  gilded  chessmen  lying  near, 

The  chess-board  placed  before  us. 

"  Shall  we  grow  gray  before  we  play  ?  " 

Cried  blue-eyed  Cousin  Lily. 
"  Don't  sit  there  in  that  stupid  way — 

It  makes  you  look  so  silly." 

I  set  the  board.     "  Now,  Cousin  Lil, 

What  say  you  to  investing 
A  little  cash  ?     You  know  it  will 

Just  make  it  interesting." 

"  Who  ever  money  risks,"  she  cried, 

"  On  such  a  game  as  this  is  ?  " 
"  Well,  then,  not  money,"  I  replied ; 

"  Let's  play,  let's  play  for  kisses." 

She  blushed,  she  laughed,  and  tossed  her  head, 
And  then,  "  How  many,  cousin  ?  " 


PLAYING   CHESS.  141 

And,  laughing  merrily,  I  said  ; 
"  I'll  play  for— forty  dozen  !  " 

The  game  began ;  with  heedful  care 

We  marshaled  all  our  forces  : 
King,  queens,  and  bishops  all  were  there, 

And  knights — at  least  their  horses. 

Though  ever  as  we  played  away 
My  cousin's  hope  grew  slighter, 

Yet  after  every  losing  play 

She  smiled  and  blushed  the  brighter. 

And  when  at  last  the  game  was  done, 

This  game  for  stakes  so  funny — 
When  I  these  funny  stakes  had  won, 

More  precious  far  than  money- 
Why,  then — but  no,  I'll  hold  my  hand ; 

I  will  not  tell  it — never  ! 
I. swore  to  keep  it  secret,  and 

I  will  for  aye  and  ever. 


XV- 


